the shade of one
of the factories, lifted the tin cover with keenest anticipation. How
good it seemed to rest, and how faint he was! He devoured the food
hurriedly with the quick greed of hunger. He then glanced about him.
Some boys and men were sauntering with bat and ball out into the open
field. Apparently a noontide game was a part of the daily program, for
two nines were quickly organized and a match was under way in the
twinkling of an eye. The other workmen drew near to watch the play and
so did Peter. He wondered how any one could summon energy enough to toss
a ball. They couldn't be as tired as he was! The game began. Before it
had proceeded beyond the first inning it was obvious that the teams were
unevenly matched.

[Illustration: A MATCH WAS UNDER WAY]

"It's the sheepskins against the calfskins--Factory 1 against Factory
2," explained a man at his elbow. "Factory 1 could do 'em if we had a
decent pitcher. O'Brien, who is pitching, isn't much even when he's in
the best of trim; to-day he happens to have a sprained finger, so he's
worse than usual."

Instantly Peter was alert. Wasn't he Factory 1? He forgot his
fatigue--forgot everything except how it felt to pitch when one had a
sprained finger.

"I can pitch a ball," he ventured modestly.

"Can you then? O'Brien!" bawled the man. "Here's a lad who says he can
pitch. Give him a try, won't you?"

Despite aching muscles and tired back Peter suddenly found himself on
the diamond with the ball in his hands. It was the first familiar
experience that had come to him that day. His blood warmed. He sent a
twirler over the plate and was greeted by a roar from the Factory 1 men.
The ball dropped with a smack into the hands of the catcher.

Peter tried another.

He pitched a third.

Vainly the man at the bat tried to hit them.

"Three strikes and out!" called the umpire.

The crowd cheered.

On went the game.

"Who's pitching?" asked one man of another.

Nobody knew.

"Carmachel says his name is Strong," some one at last informed the
workmen.

"Hurrah for little Strong!" yelled a big Swede.

"Three cheers for the Little Giant!" piped a shrill voice.

On every hand the cry was taken up.

"Three cheers for the Little Giant!"

Then suddenly the one o'clock whistle sounded. Peter came back to the
realities of life. He dropped his gloves. Already, as if the earth had
opened, players and audience had vanished. In through the waiting doors
of the