"Ball one!"

"Now, I hope the next one will be good, and that I can hit it
a crack that will drive it into the next county," muttered Ted,
feeling the cold sweat beading his forehead.

He judged wrongly, on a drop ball.

"Strike two!"

"Drive a plum into that pudding in the box, Ted," sang out one
of his classmates.

"Ow-ow-ow!" shrieked a score of watching Central Grammar boys.
That was the last straw. Ted felt the blood rush to his head
and all looked red before him.

"Strike three! Side out! Game!" came slowly, steadily from the
umpire. Then the score-keeper rose to his feet.

"Central Grammar wins by a score of three to nothing."

This time Ted Teall didn't throw his bat. Gripping it savagely,
he stalked over to a group of his own schoolmates.

"What fellow was it that started the yelling?" demanded Ted huskily.

"Why?" challenged three or four of the Souths.