"Durry, I'll come home with my shield, or on it," muttered Carter, with set teeth and white lips as he went to pick up the bat that he was to swing.
Carter was not one of the best stick men of the Army baseball outfit, but there is sometimes such a thing as batting luck. For this, Carter prayed under his breath.
Darrin, of course, was determined to baffle this strong-hope man of West Point. He sent in one of his craftiest outshoots. For a wonder, Carter guessed it, and reached out for it—-but missed.
"Strike two!" followed almost immediately from the placid's umpire's lips.
Everyone who hoped for the Army was trembling now.
Dan Dalzell did some urgent signaling. In response, Darrin took an extra hard twist around the leather, unwound, unbent and let go.
Crack! Batter's luck, and nothing else!
"Carter, Carter, Carter!" broke loose from the mouths of half a thousand gray-clad cadets, and the late anxious batter was sprinting for all there was in him.
Just to right of center field, and past, went the ball—-a good old two-bagger for any player that could run.
From third Dick came in at a good jog, but he did not exert himself.
He had seen how long it must take to get the ball in circulation.