“Run, everybody!  Run!” cried Bunny Brown, dropping the bat and starting for first base himself.  Two of his side were on the other bases, and if they could all get in on his home run it would mean that his side would win.

Higher and higher and farther and farther sailed the ball Bunny had knocked, away over the head of fat Bobbie Boomer, who was playing out in center field.  It surely was going to be a home run.

“Oh, look where that ball’s going!” cried Charlie Star, turning to watch it.  “Oh, it’s going to break one of Mr. Morrison’s windows!” Mr. Morrison was a rather crabbed, cross old man who had a house on the edge of the vacant lots where the boys played ball.

Bunny was too excited over his home run to pay much attention to where the ball went, and Tom Case and Jerry Bond, who were running “home,” thought only of how fast they could run.  But the others watched the ball, and a moment later saw it crash through one of Mr. Morrison’s windows.

By this time Bunny was at third base.  He did not stop there, but ran on in, touched home plate, and sank down to rest, very tired but happy because he was sure his side would now win the ball game.

Out in the field, near the fence that was around Mr. Morrison’s house, Bobbie Boomer was calling: 

“I can’t get the ball!  I can’t get the ball!  It’s in Mr. Morrison’s house!”

And, surely enough, that’s where it was—­right in the house.  It had gone through the window.

“I—­I made the home run all right!” panted Bunny Brown.  “I told you I would, Charlie Star!”

Bunny had run so fast that he had not heard the tinkle of the breaking glass, nor had he seen where his ball went.

“Yes, you made a home run all right!” yelled Charlie.  “And now we’d better all run home or Old Morrison will be after us for busting his window.  Come on, fellows!  Let’s run home!”

The game was practically over, and a number of the boys, fearing the anger of Mr. Morrison, started after Charlie, running away from the lots.  But this was not Bunny Brown’s way.

“Did I—­did the ball I batted break a window?” he asked.

“You ought to ‘a’ heard the crash!” panted Bobbie Boomer, running in from center field.  “Old Morrison will be here in a minute!  You’d better run, Bunny!”

Surely enough, a moment or two later Mr. Morrison came out on his back porch, from which he could look into the lots.  He saw the boys, some of them running away.  In his hand he held the baseball that had crashed through his window.

“Hi, there!” he cried.  “Who did this?”

One or two boys, seeing that Bunny was not going to run, had stayed with him.

“Who did this?” cried Mr. Morrison again.

Up spoke Bunny Brown, walking toward the angry man.

“I—­I knocked the ball,” he said.

“Well, you broke my window, young man, and you’ve got to pay for it!”