But he would have to practice a lot first, so, when he reached the
house, he went in and found a ball of his own. He turned it over and
over in his fingers, admiring it. It was a fine one, with leather as
white as buckskin but very hard, and thick seams sewed in the cover
with heavy thread, winding in and out in horseshoe curves.

It had a dandy name, too,--"Rocket," that was it. And he threw it up
high up, up, up, until it reached the eaves of the barn and startled
the swallows, who flew out and swept the sky with their pretty wings,
chattering angrily at him.

He watched to see where the ball would fall, and ran under it, holding
his hands like a little cup. It fell into them, but it fell _out_
even quicker than it had fallen in. Jiminy! but that ball was hard!
Marmaduke thought the man who made it should have left the "et" from
its name and called it plain "Rock" instead. It was just like a rock
covered with hard leather.

He tried it again, but he didn't throw it up quite so high.

"Crack!" it went against the side of the barn, and little clouds of
hay-dust from the loft danced in the air, and the swallows chattered
still more angrily:

"He persists--sists--sists--sists--sists," they called to one another.

This time the ball fell on his cheekbone and raised a lump as round
and as hard as a marble.

He didn't cry. Oh, no! for he was trying hard these days to be a