“Go after it, Wrecker.  Put it over hard!  Slam!”

After two strikes and one ball had been called Wrecker let go in deadly earnest.  Bang!  The blow split the leather, which went in an erratic though by no means short course.  Greg dashed in over the plate amid wild cheers.  Dan, hotfooting as he had never before done in his life, crossed the plate also.  Wrecker, panting, reached first, looked at the fielder almost on the ball, sped on, then prudently turned and make back for first.

Toby Ross now went to bat, and struck out in crisp one-two-three order.

“Wrecker, that was a bully liner!” glowed Dick, grasping the hand of the boy who had saved the score in its critical moment.  “You seemed to have Hi Martin’s delivery down to a certainty.”

“Yes, and it was a wonder, too,” confessed Wrecker, still a bit dazed.  “I couldn’t see the ball at all, but I knew that it was up to me to do something.”

“How do you feel now, Chromos?” bawled Ted Teall at the beginning of the seventh.

The score was now three to two in favor of Central Grammar.

It was still there when the seventh ended, and also at the finish of the eighth.  Then the North Grammars went to bat for the first half of the ninth.

“You fellows simply must do something—–­do a lot,” had been Hi’s almost tearful urging as be addressed his fellows at the bench.

It was Bill Rodgers who stood before him as Dick twirled the ball, awaiting Greg’s signal, which came a second later—–­a drop ball.

Bill swung for it, then looked foolish.  Two more bad guesses, and he was out.

A second man was soon out, and then a third.  Not one of the trio had been able to judge Dick’s ball.

Central Grammar had won the first game by the close score of three to two.  That, however, was as good for all purposes as any other could possibly be.

“What ails you Norths?” amiably remarked Ted Teall.  “Is it the gayness of your uniforms?  The red gets in your eyes and keeps you from seeing the ball.”

“You’re not funny,” glowered Hi Martin.  “You’re merely a clown.”

“Wait until my nine plays yours,” retorted Teall genially.  “Then we’ll see who looks more like a clown—–­you or I.”

But now there was time, and Dick Prescott and his fellows had to tell scores of eager inquirers how they came by their new uniforms, when they had not expected to have any.

“Just what I thought, or as bad, anyway,” muttered Martin when the news was brought to him.  “These muckers couldn’t buy their uniforms, as our fellows did.  They had to depend upon charity to make a good appearance on the field.”

“Hold on, there, Martin,” angrily objected one of the Central fans.  “I suppose it was charity, too, when you gave our fellows the game, eh?  It was mighty kind of you, too.”

“Huh!” retorted Hi.  “This is only one game lost, and by a hair’s breadth.  Wait until the end of the season, and see who carries the laurels.”