Dalzell, on the bench, was leaning forward now, his chin plunged in between his hands.
"Dick Prescott hasn't lost any of his knack for surprises," muttered Danny. "And if we, who know his old tricks, can't fathom him at all, what are the other seven of us going to do?"
As the ball arched slowly back into Dick's hands, Dalzell, in his anxiety, found himself leaping to his feet.
And now Prescott pitched, in answer to Greg's signal, what looked like a coming jump ball.
Dave Darrin knew that throw, and was ready. In another instant he could have dropped with chagrin, for the ball, after all, was another "drop," and Greg Holmes had mitted it for the Army in tune to the umpire's:
"Strike three-out! Two out!"
"David, little giant, your hand!" begged Dalzell, in a fiery whisper as his chum reached the bench.
"What's up?" asked Darrin half suspiciously.
"Agree with me, now—-make deep and loud the solemn vow that we'll use Dick and Greg just as they've treated us!"
"We will, if we can," nodded Darrin, more serious than his chum. "But I always try to tell you, Danny boy, that it's best not to do your bragging until after you've scuttled your ship."