“Hub!  You mean that the Souths don’t know how to play,” sneered Hi Martin.

“Teall’s fellows are playing well,” argued Rodgers.  “If you watch, you’ll see that the luck of the Centrals depends a lot on the way they run the bases.  Whew!  They go like greased lightning when they’re sprinting around the diamond.”

“Well, why shouldn’t they run?” demanded Hi.  “Prescott and his fellows have been running every day since the snow went away.”

“I wish our Norths had been running all the time, too,” sighed Bill.

The Souths were playing desperately well in the field.  Dick’s side came in for the ninth, but did not succeed in getting another run.

“Now, watch ’em closely, fellows,” counseled Dick, as, from the benches, he started his men out to the field.  “The Souths are mad and game, and they may get runs enough in this last half to beat us.  Play, all the time, as if you didn’t know what it was to be tired.  Keep after ’em!”

Dick struck the first South Grammar fellow out.  The next man at bat took first on called balls.  The next hit a light fly that was good for a base.  The player who followed sent a bunt that Dave, as short-stop, fumbled.  And now the bases were full.

“Oh, you Ted!” wailed the South fans hopefully.  “Do your duty now, Teall!”

Ted gripped the bat, stepping forward.  As he reached the plate he shot at his schoolmates a look of grim resolution.

“I’ll bring those three fellows in, if I have to kill the ball, or drive it through a fielder!” muttered Ted resolutely.  “If we can tie the score then we can break this fearful hoodoo and win the game yet.”

“Don’t let that pitcher scare you, Ted!” yelled a South encouragingly.  “He hasn’t a wing any longer.  It’s only a fin.”

“Codfish fin, at that,” mocked another.

“Bang!” retorted a dozen Central fans.

Before the answering chorus could come Dick Prescott held up a hand, looking sternly at his sympathizers.

“Strike one!” called the umpire, and once more Teall reddened.

“I’ve got to brace, and work myself out of this,” groaned red-faced Teall.  “There’s too much depending on me.”

“Ball one!”

“Now, I hope the next one will be good, and that I can hit it a crack that will drive it into the next county,” muttered Ted, feeling the cold sweat beading his forehead.

He judged wrongly, on a drop ball.

“Strike two!”

“Drive a plum into that pudding in the box, Ted,” sang out one of his classmates.

“Ow-ow-ow!” shrieked a score of watching Central Grammar boys.  That was the last straw.  Ted felt the blood rush to his head and all looked red before him.

“Strike three!  Side out!  Game!” came slowly, steadily from the umpire.  Then the score-keeper rose to his feet.

“Central Grammar wins by a score of three to nothing.”

This time Ted Teall didn’t throw his bat.  Gripping it savagely, he stalked over to a group of his own schoolmates.