Dick struck the first South Grammar fellow out. The next man
at bat took first on called balls. The next hit a light fly that
was good for a base. The player who followed sent a bunt that
Dave, as short-stop, fumbled. And now the bases were full.

"Oh, you Ted!" wailed the South fans hopefully. "Do your duty
now, Teall!"

Ted gripped the bat, stepping forward. As he reached the plate
he shot at his schoolmates a look of grim resolution.

"I'll bring those three fellows in, if I have to kill the ball,
or drive it through a fielder!" muttered Ted resolutely. "If
we can tie the score then we can break this fearful hoodoo and
win the game yet."

"Don't let that pitcher scare you, Ted!" yelled a South encouragingly.
"He hasn't a wing any longer. It's only a fin."

"Codfish fin, at that," mocked another.

"Bang!" retorted a dozen Central fans.

Before the answering chorus could come Dick Prescott held up a
hand, looking sternly at his sympathizers.

"Strike one!" called the umpire, and once more Teall reddened.

"I've got to brace, and work myself out of this," groaned red-faced
Teall. "There's too much depending on me."