regular boy and never to cry even one little whimper. So he just went
in the house and Mother put a kiss and some arnica on it--it is always
more effective if mixed that way--and out he came and tried it all
over again. For regular boys never give up. Of course, at first he
threw the ball a little lower than before, but that was only wise. And
this time it did fall into his hands and he held it tight. Over and
over he practised until his hands were pretty red from catching the
hard "Rocket" ball, but he felt very happy inside--which is what
counts, for one doesn't mind being sore _outside_ if one is all
right _within_.

However, all the time he could hear the sound of that bat over on the
Miller lot. Then--all of a sudden--he heard an altogether different
sort of noise--more like a crash and a smash than a crack.

"Glass!" that was it!

"Hooray!" he shouted in delight, "_now_ that Fatty's going to get
it."

But he was wrong. Fatty was too plump to hit a ball so hard. It was
Dicky Means that had done it. And, like Fatty, he was always up to
tricks, only usually Fatty _planned_ them and Dicky _did_ them.

Yes, it was Dicky Means who had hit that ball right through Mis'
Miller's window, the big parlor window, too, and she expected the
Methodist ladies of the Laborforlovesociety that very afternoon. There
was Mis' Miller now, running out of the house and shrieking,--

"You younglimbosatan, you'll pay for that!"