"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."
"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.
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