“The bar is now at nine feet, ten and one-half inches!” announces a voice, and they turn their gaze to see a Mount Morris youth rise in air, straighten and come hurtling to earth with the bar on top of him.
“So sorry,” murmurs Roy Dresser. “Hope he does it again next time.”
The megaphone artist trots into the middle of the arena and faces the stand, a slip of paper in his hand. The voices are stilled as he places the scarlet horn to his mouth. “At the end of the fifth inning——”
Deep silence now!
“—At Rotan the score stands: Grafton 5——”
An outburst of cheers, quickly stilled.
“—Rotan 11!”
A moment of gloom, broken by ironical cheers from the Mount Morris end of the stand.
“What do you know about that?” asks Dud wonderingly. “They must have hammered Myatt for fair! Eleven to five! Gee!”