"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.