" he yelled. "What you think you're doing?"

"Butter fingers, butter fingers!" came the taunting reply.

"Don't care. I'm going to wait for my glove. Here's Sid now."

The team turned as one man and stared in astonishment. Their captain had
delayed his return to don his new baseball suit, and from the spikes on
his shoes to the visor of his red-trimmed cap, he was a perfect
miniature of a professional player. Even John was unable to restrain an
envious stare at the natty flannel shirt and knickerbockers, and the
maroon and white stockings.

"Cost eight dollars, it did," Sid announced, as he acknowledged the
unconscious homage with a satisfied smile. "Dad gave it to me 'cause I
was captain. Here's the gloves and the ball and the bat. Let's start
practice."

They ran back to their positions. Sid, bat in hand, stood by the plate,
tossed the league ball high in the air, and knocked the sphere easily
toward third base. Skinny, with the confidence engendered by a
well-padded hand, scooped the ball with surprising accuracy and returned
it. Again Sid repeated the process.

Red pranced impatiently up and down on the sand path. "Give me one this
time," he begged. "Don't send 'em all to Skinny."

The captain of the "Tigers" nodded and hit the descending ball with all
his force a little too far for Red to reach. A quick glance showed the
impending catastrophe.

"Hey, kid, get out of the way," he yelled. The warning came too late.
The ball skimmed over the grass, struck a hummock which had been
overlooked by the builders of the diamond, and ricochetted upward into
the hapless Mosher youngster's stomach.

Yells filled the air. Skinny, unwilling slave, stooped over his
prostrate brother. "Hurt much?" he queried anxiously. John glanced at
his watch in boredom, for such occurrences had lost their novelty long
months ago.

"Paper time," he called, as he made for the tracks. A last glance back
before the dairy buildings cut off the view, showed the wailing infant
trudging sturdily toward the walk. Every line of his figure indicated
maddened determination to tell his mother on the whole team.

Tuesday and Wednesday sped past. It became more and more apparent that a
substitute for Joe Menard must be found if the "Tigers" were to have
even a fighting chance of holding their own with the ancient enemy. Time
and again Haldane Harrison took his place to whip a few slightly curving
balls down to the critical Silvey, only to realize