k, who
surprised every one by catching a fly that somehow stuck in his glove,
was promoted to centerfield; Susie Satterly, who had stopped two
grounders, took left; while Beekstein was ignominiously escorted to a
far position in rightfield and firmly requested to stop whatever he
could with his chest.

The Cleve cohorts arrived, thirty strong, like banditti marching to
sack a city, openly voicing their derision for the nine occupants of
the Green House. The contest, which at first sight seemed unequal, was
not in reality so, Tough McCarty and Cheyenne Baxter being an
unusually strong battery, while the infield, with Butsey White at
first, the White Mountain Canary at second, Stuffy Brown short-stop
and the Coffee-colored Angel at third, quite outclassed the invaders.
The trouble was in the outfield--where the trouble in such contests
are sure to congregate.

Stover had never been so thoroughly frightened in his life. His
imagination, boylike, was aghast at the unknown. A great question was
to be decided in a few minutes, when his turn would come to step up to
the box and expose himself to the terrific cannonade of Nick Carter,
the lengthy pitcher of the Cleve. The curious thing was that on this
point Stover himself was quite undecided. Was he a coward, or was he
not? Would his legs go back on him, or would he stand his ground,
knowing that the stinging ball might strike anywhere--on the tender
wrist bones, shattering the point of the elbow, or landing with a
deadly thud right over his temple, which he remembered was an
absolutely fatal spot?

His first two innings in the field were a complete success--not a
ball came his way. With his fielding average quite intact he came in
to face the crisis.

"Brown to the bat, Stover on deck, Satterly in the hole," came the
shrill voice of Fate in the person of Shrimp Davis, the official
scorer.

Stover nervously tried one bat after another; each seemed to weigh a
ton. Then Cheyenne Baxter joined him, crouching beside him for a word
of advice.

"Now, Dink," he said in a whisper, keeping his eye on Stuffy Brown,
who, being unable to hit the straightest ball, was pawing the plate
and making terrific preparatory swings with his bat. "Now, Dink,
listen here. (Pick out an easy one, Stuffy, and bang it on the nose.
Hi-yi, good waiting, Stuffy) Nick Carter's wild as a wet hen. All he's
got is a fast outcurve. Now, what you want to do is to edge up close
to the plate and let him h