Baseball Joe on the School Nine.

by Lester Chadwick.

CHAPTER I

HITTING A TEACHER

"Look out now, fellows; here goes for a high one!"

"Aw come off; you can't throw high without dislocating your arm, Peaches. Don't try it."

"You get off the earth; I can so, Teeter. Watch me."

"Let Joe Matson have a try. He can throw higher than you can, Peaches,"

and the lad who had last spoken grasped the arm of a tall boy, with a very fair complexion which had gained him the nickname of "Peaches and Cream," though it was usually shortened to "Peaches." There was a crowd of lads on the school grounds, throwing s...o...b..a.l.l.s, when the offer of "Peaches" or d.i.c.k Lantfeld was made.

"Don't let him throw, Teeter," begged George Bland, jokingly.

"I'll not," retorted "Teeter" Nelson, whose first name was Harry, but who had gained his appellation because of a habit he had of "teetering"

on his tiptoes when reciting in cla.s.s. "I've got Peaches all right,"

and there was a struggle between the two lads, one trying to throw a s...o...b..ll, and the other trying to prevent him.

"Come on, Joe," called Teeter, to a tall, good-looking, and rather quiet youth who stood beside a companion. "Let's see you throw. You're always good at it, and I'll keep Peaches out of the way."

"Shall we try, Tom?" asked Joe Matson of his chum.

"Might as well. Come on!"

"Yes, let 'Sister' Davis have a whack at it too," urged George Bland.

Tom Davis, who was Joe Matson's particular chum, was designated "Sister"

because, in an incautious moment, when first coming to Excelsior Hall, he had shown a picture of his very pretty sister, Mabel.

Tom and Joe, who had come upon the group of other pupils after the impromptu s...o...b..ll throwing contest had started, advanced further toward their school companions. Peaches and Teeter were still engaged in their friendly struggle, until Peaches tripped over a stone, concealed under a blanket of snow, and both went down in a struggling heap.

"Make it a touchdown!" yelled George Bland.

"Yes, shove him over the line, Peaches!" cried Tom.

"Hold him! Hold him!" implored Joe, and the little group of lads, which was increased by the addition of several other pupils, circled about the struggling ones, laughing at their plight.

"D-d-down!" finally panted Peaches, when Teeter held his face in the soft snow. "Let me up, will you?"

"Promise not to try to throw a high one?" asked Teeter, still maintaining his position astride of Peaches.

"Yes--I--I guess so."

"That doesn't go with me; you've got to be sure."

"All right, let a fellow up, will you? There's a lot of snow down my neck."

"That's what happened to me the last time you fired a high s...o...b..ll, Peaches. That's why I didn't want you to try another while I'm around.

You wait until I'm off the campus if you've got to indulge in high jinks. Come on now, fellows, since Peaches has promised to behave himself, let the merry dance go on. Have you tried a shot, Joe? Or you, Sister," and Teeter looked at the newcomers.

"Not yet," answered Joe Matson with a smile. "Haven't had a chance."

"That's right," put in Tom Davis. "You started a rough-house with Peaches as soon as we got here. What's on, anyhow?"

"Oh, we're just seeing how straight we can aim with s...o...b..a.l.l.s," explained Teeter. "See if you can hit that barrel head down there," and he pointed to the object in question, about forty yards away on the school campus.

"See if you can hit the barrel, Joe," urged George Bland. "A lot of us have missed it, including Peaches, who seems to think his particular stunt is high throwing."

"And so it is!" interrupted the lad with the clear complexion. "I can beat any one here at----"

"Save that talk until the baseball season opens!" retorted Teeter. "Go ahead, Joe and Tom. And you other fellows can try if you like," he added, for several more pupils had joined the group.

It might seem easy to hit the head of a barrel at that distance, but either the lads were not expert enough or else the s...o...b..a.l.l.s, being of irregular shapes and rather light, did not carry well. Whatever the cause, the fact remained that the barrel received only a few scattering shots and these on the outer edges of the head.

"Now we'll see what Sister Davis can do!" exclaimed Nat Pierson, as Joe's chum stepped up to the firing line.

"Oh, I'm not so much," answered Tom with a half smile. "Joe will beat me all to pieces."

"Joe Matson sure can throw," commented Teeter, in a low voice to George Bland. "I remember what straight aim he had the last time we built a fort, and had a snow fight."

"I should say yes," agreed George. "And talk about speed!" he added.

"Wow! One ball he threw soaked me in the ear. I can feel it yet!" and he rubbed the side of his head reflectively.

The first ball that Tom threw just clipped the upper rim of the barrel head, and there were some exclamations of admiration. The second one was a clean miss, but not by a large margin. The third missile split into fragments on the rim of the head.

"Good!" cried Peaches. "That's the way to do it!"

"Wait until you see Joe plug it," retorted Tom with a smile.

"Oh, I'm not such a wonder," remarked our hero modestly, as he advanced to the line. In his hand he held three very hard and smooth s...o...b..a.l.l.s, which he spent some time in making in antic.i.p.ation of his turn to throw.

"I haven't had much practice lately," he went on, "though I used to throw pretty straight when the baseball season was on."

Joe carefully measured with his eye the distance to the barrel. Then he swung his arm around a few times to "limber up."

"That fellow used to pitch on some nine, I'll wager," said Teeter in a whisper to Peaches.

"Yes, I heard something about him being a star on some small country team," was the retort. "But let's watch him."

Joe threw. The ball left his hand with tremendous speed and, an instant later, had struck the head of the barrel with a resounding "ping!"

"In the centre! In the centre!" yelled Peaches with enthusiasm as he capered about.

"A mighty good shot!" complimented Teeter, doing his particular toe stunt.