“Aw, dry up,” grumbled Tolly.
“And they put him out in center, just to fill up, you know. Of course Murdock told him that if a fly came toward him to run like the dickens and not try to worry it. And sure enough one of the Spencer Hall fellows lit on a good one and sent it into left. Tolly was dreaming away out there, or picking daisies or something: I forget: and all of a sudden he heard a yell and here was that awful ball sailing right down at him! It was a horrible moment in Tolly’s young life. He tried hard to run away, but the pesky ball just followed him. If he ran back the ball went after him. If he ran to the right the ball went that way too. It was awful! Poor old Tolly nearly fainted. Center fielder was coming hard for it, but it was a long hit——”
“The longest ever made on the field!” interpolated Tolly proudly.
“And he couldn’t reach it. Tolly saw that there was no use trying to escape, so finally he stood still, resolved to sell his life dearly, and put up his hands to ward off the ball. Well, sir, Terry, that ball went right against Tolly’s hands and Tolly gave a cry of fear and fell down unconscious!”
“Is that so?” demanded Tolly indignantly. “Well, the ball stuck, didn’t it? And I wasn’t so unconscious that I couldn’t jump up and peg to shortstop, was I? Huh!”
“So after that,” concluded Hal, “as a sort of reward for accidentally saving the game, they let him sit on the bench and called him a substitute fielder.”
Terry joined in the laughter, and then, catching Tolly’s eyes on him, stopped suddenly. There was something of apology in Tolly’s look and Terry understood. It was Tolly who had profited by his failure. Tolly would play right field after this. He was made certain of it the next moment, for Walt Gordon remarked:
“Well, you’re all right now, Tolly. They can’t keep a good man down, eh?”
“How’s that?” asked Hal, who was not a ball player, but performed on the track, being one of the school’s best sprinters and no mean hand at the hurdles.