The pins were up and Arlington was ready. He thrust up his right sleeve a little farther, so that the lower portion of his swelling biceps could be seen.
Chester did not use a curve, but rolled a ball with a moderate amount of speed, starting his first one in each set from the right side of the alley and sending it toward the head pin. This time he barely missed the pin in advance, and the ball lopped off the entire side of the bunch, leaving four standing on the opposite side.
“That would have been a strike if he had touched the head pin,” declared one of the spectators.
“It is a spare now,” averred Arlington, with unshaken confidence. “I can’t miss them.”
At this statement some one laughed.
“Oh, laugh away!” exclaimed Chet. “But just watch this ball a moment!”
Chester rolled his second ball. This time he used a trifle too much speed. The ball seemed to hit the head pin squarely, and the pin took one of those peculiar, freakish jumps that carried it clean over the others without touching them.
Arlington stood still in the middle of the runway with his hands on his hips, glaring at the pins.
“I’d like to have some one tell how that happened,” he finally cried.
“Hard luck!” said a voice. “You should have had your spare!”