offer it."

Again there was a good-humored shout from the bustling throng.

"I'll line up with Yale to beat you though," Cheever added with a
chuckle.

"You can line up, you shrimp, but we're going to do the beating,"
retorted an ardent Harvard supporter.

So the banter went on while the nines were being organized.

At length, however, there was a shout of dismay.

"We're lacking one man," announced the captain of the Crimsons, with
sudden consternation. "Haven't you another chap who can play, Dick?"

"Nobody, I'm afraid, unless you want to haul in some of the
chauffeurs," Dick answered idly.

"Jove! That's hard luck. We've got to have a shortstop. What are we
going to do?"

"Wasn't there a boy around here somewhere this morning with the dogs?
It seems to me I saw somebody--a stocky little chap with a snub nose."

The description was not flattering and Walter winced.

"Oh, that was King, who has charge of the kennels," replied Dick
quickly. "I'm afraid he hasn't come back with the bunch of poodles
yet."

"Yes, he has. I saw him skulking round the garage just now. Can't we
drum him up?"

"Sure, if you can find him."

"There he is!" cried Cheever. "I say, you master of the hounds, come
on over here. We want you."

Blushing red His Highness approached the noisy group.

"Did you ever play baseball, kid?" inquired the captain of the Harvard
team.

"I believe so--once or twice," answered Walter soberly.

"Want to come in with us as shortstop?"

"Sure!"

"I've a glove that will fit him," put in a man called Richardson.

With scant ceremony His Highness was hustled into it and before he
sensed what he was doing he was yelling with the rest, and head over
ears in as exciting a game of ball as he had ever participated in.

There were excellent players on both teams and the scoring ran so even
that it was a toss-up who would win. From jest the game dropped into
deadly earnestness.

"It's your turn at the bat, Stubby," asserted Richardson to Walter
unceremoniously. "Now remember who you're playing for. Don't hand Yale
the game if you can help it."

"I'll do my best," was the modest reply as the lad gripped the bat,
then rubbed his hands in the dirt to make his hold more certain.

The pitcher twirled a ball.

"One strike!" droned the umpire.

Again the leather disc spun through the air.

"Two strikes," called the warning voice.

"Great Scott, Stubbie, look out. Don't waste strokes like that, yo