threw it
straight as a die for home. Fred had passed third and was legging it for
the plate with all his might. But this time the ball had a shade the
better of it, and Fred was nabbed just as he slid over the rubber.

"Good try, old boy, but you just didn't make it," cried Bob Ellis, the
catcher, as he clapped the ball on him.

"Sure thing," admitted Fred, "but it was worth taking a chance."

There were three out, and the other side came in for its inning. Jim
Dabney was all smiles, as he came over to Fred.

"How was that for a throw, Fred?" he asked. "Pretty nifty, I call it."

"It was a peach," assented Fred. "You got me good and proper and I'm not
saying a word. That wing of yours is certainly all right. How's the
hand? Did you hurt it badly?"

"Only started another nail," answered Jim. "I suppose that will turn
black now and begin to come off. That'll make the third I've lost this
year. Lucky it was on the left hand, though."

"Cheer up, Jim," laughed Bob, "you've got seven nails left."

But, obviously, Jim did not need cheering up. His good-natured face was
aglow with satisfaction. He had made a good stop and had thrown his man
out at the plate. Then, too, he rather gloated over his scars in secret,
and would exhibit them on occasion with all the pride of a soldier
showing his wounds received in battle. They were so many proofs of his
prowess on the diamond.

It would be straining a point, perhaps, to call the field on which the
boys were playing a "diamond." At the best it was a "diamond in the
rough." Half a mile away, on the other side of the village of Oldtown,
there was a real baseball field, well laid out and kept in good
condition. There was a fine turf infield, a spacious and closely cut
outfield and the base lines were clearly marked. The townspeople took
considerable pride in the grounds, that were much above the average for
villages of that size, and, on Saturday afternoons, almost the whole
male population of the town was to be found watching the game and
"rooting" for the home team.

But on this day the boys were practicing on a lot directly behind the
home of Fred Rushton, who was the captain of their school nine. Big
stones marked the position of the bases, and the "rubber" at the home
plate was a sheet of tin. Although the infield was fairly smooth, the
lot further out was rough and clumpy, and it was risky work running for
high flies, as Jim had proved to his cost. But it was good pract