Tony Tippen obeyed instructions, literally hurling himself with outstretched arms toward the plate. From amidst a cloud of yellow dust his hand shot forward. Then, just as victory seemed certain, a hard thump jarred his shoulder. The ball had won the race.
"Runner out!" called the umpire.
The Star adherents left off shouting as the high school lads began. Caps were thrown recklessly in the air; purple and white pennants waved frantically; and as Blake, flushed with pride, walked in from the field he heard his name rolling out on waves of sound.
"Not so badly done, sir," remarked Mr. Rupert Barry, who sat on a bench between the president of the Kingswood High and solemn-looking Professor Ivins.
"Dear me," said the latter. "I can't understand why the boys get so dreadfully excited."
"It is one of the very annoying features of the sport," returned Mr. Barry. "They distract everybody's attention."
"If they would only enter into their studies with the same enthusiasm we might have a race of intellectual giants," said Professor Ivins, gravely.
"Young Blake is one of those rare combinations who seem to be able to do both," remarked President Hopkins, smilingly.
"The catcher who tagged that boy out is now going to bat," said Mr. Barry, looking up from his score-card. "I don't understand how it is, President Hopkins—your boys don't seem able to hit. I know Anthony Tippen has quite a reputation; but surely, with all their practice, sir, they ought to do better than this. By George—a most ridiculous spectacle! That chap has actually missed another."
"Strikes me it's a most dangerous game," said Professor Ivins. "I declare, I should like to get a little further away, where those balls—what do they call them?—yes, yes: foul tips—a most ridiculous appellation, by the way—would not be so likely to hit us. I read of a case——"