Tom Reade hadn't devoted years to ball-playing without knowing
how to throw straight. The stone left his hand, arching upward,
and flew straight toward Bad Pete, who had advanced steadily as
he fired.

Whiff! Though Pete tried, too late, to dodge the stone, it landed
against his sombrero, carrying that away without injuring the
owner.

"Kindly clear out!" called Tom coolly. "You and your noise annoy me
when I'm trying to do a big afternoon's work."

Snatching up his sombrero, Bad Pete vanished into a clump of brush.

Jack Rutter leaped up from his haven of safety, advancing swiftly
to his cub assistant.

"Reade," he exclaimed, with ungrudging admiration, "you're the
coolest young fellow I ever met, without exception. But you're
foolhardy, boy. Bad Pete is a real shot. One of these days,
when you're just as cool, he'll fill you full of lead!"

"If he does?" retorted Tom, again bending over his transit, "and
if I notice it, I'll throw a bigger stone at him than I did that
time, and it'll land on him a few inches lower down."

"But, boy, don't you understand that the days of David and Goliath
are gone by," remonstrated Rutter. "It's true you're turned the
laugh on Pete, but that fellow won't forgive you. He may open
on you again within two minutes."