“Strike three—–­and out.  Side out!”

From the Navy seats dead calm, but from the band came a blare of brass and a clash of drums and cymbals as the cheering started.

In an instant, out of all the hubbub, came the long corps yell from the cadets, ending with: 

“Prescott!  Holmes!”

Sweet music, indeed, to the Army battery.  But Greg heard it on the wing, so to speak, for at the changing of the sides he had hastened forward, so as to pass Dan Dalzell: 

“Danny boy, after the game, I want you to do something big for me,” whispered Cadet Holmes.

“Surely,” murmured Dalzell.  “What shall it be?”

“I think I know how you get that grin of yours, that conquering grin on your face, but I wish you’d show me how you make it stick!”

“Call you out for that some day,” hissed Dalzell, as, with heightened color, he made his way to catcher’s post of duty behind the plate.

Dave Darrin received the ball, and handled it, after the ways of his kind, for a few seconds, to detect any irregularities there might be to its surface or any flaws in its roundness.

“Play ball!” called the umpire.

With Beckwith holding the stick, and Durville on deck, Dick had time to do what he was most anxious to do—–­to make a study of any new things that Darrin might have learned.

Dave appeared to be fully warmed at the start.  “Strike one!” called the umpire, though Beckwith had not dared offer.

Then: 

“Strike two!”

Dick began to see light.  Dave was in fine form, and was sending them in with such terrific speed that it was barely possible to gauge them.  That style of pitching carried big hopes for a Navy victory!

CHAPTER XIX

WHEN THE ARMY FANS WINCED

As Darrin sent in the third ball Beckwith made a desperate sweep for it.  It was not to be his, however.

“Three strikes!  Striker out!”

That broad grin had come back to Dan Dalzell’s face, as he held up the neatly mitted ball for an instant, then hurled it lazily back to Dave Darrin.

Now, Durville came to bat, and the captain of the Army nine was an accurate and hard hitter.

“Ball one!”

“Strike one!”

“Strike two!”

“Ball two!”

Then came a slight swish of willow against leather.  Durville had at last succeeded in just touching the ball.  But it was a foul hit, and that was all.  Dan, however, was not out at the side in time to pick that foul into his own mitten.

Durville, his face somewhat pale and teeth clenched, stood ready for his last chance.  It came, in one of Darrin’s trickiest throws.  It was no use, after all.  Durville missed, and Dalzell didn’t.

“Strike three—–­striker out!”

“Prescott, you know that Navy fellow!  Go after him—–­hammer him all the way down the river!” groaned Durville in a low voice as Dick came forward.