During these innings I had ``assisted'' in
two doubles and had fired in three ``daisy
cutters'' to first myself in spite of the
guying I got from the opposing rooters.

``Four-eyes'' they called me on account of
my spectacles until a new nickname came
at the last half of the ninth inning,
when we were in the field with the score
four to three in our favor. It was then
that a small, fat boy with a paper megaphone
longer than he was waddled out
almost to first base and levelling his
trumpet at me, thundered out in a sudden
silence:

``Hello, Foxy Grandpa!'' That was
too much. I got rattled, and when there
were three men on bases and two out, a
swift grounder came to me, I fell--catching
it--and threw wildly to first from my
knees. I heard shouts of horror, anger,
and distress from everywhere and my own
heart stopped beating--I had lost the
game--and then Marston leaped in the
air--surely it must have been four feet--
caught the ball with his left hand and
dropped back on the bag. The sound of
his foot on it and the runner's was almost
simultaneous, but the umpire said Marston's