Crack. A hot liner burned the short-stop's hand. He let it drop, and Bob, smiling good-naturedly, was safe on first.
Dave Brandon slowly ambled up to the plate.
"Chuck me an easy one, Grimshaw," he said.
The pitcher grinned. One strike—two strikes—the smile broadened, but the stout boy did not seem in the least disturbed.
Dick Travers groaned. "Mind yourself, Dave. Get Bob off that bag."
Hurrah! Dave's sturdy arms swung the bat with telling force. Gleefully the Ramblers saw the ball flying far beyond the right-fielder's reach, and the "freight car" getting over the ground at astonishing speed.
Bob, with a desperate slide, managed to reach home, while Dave, puffing and blowing, stopped on third.
But the boys' high hopes, at this auspicious beginning, were dashed when Randall and Travers were thrown out at first and Clifton fanned the air three times.
"Never mind," laughed Bob, as the shrill yells of the mountain adherents were still echoing; "keep up your good work, Dave. We have them beaten by a mile."
But the next inning proved disastrous. Their rivals earned three runs, and the shouting redoubled.