Again d.i.c.ky Means agreed with Fatty.

"_Sure_ he'd m.u.f.f it every time."

Reddy Toms and Harold Skinner didn't take Marmaduke's part, nor did Sammy Soapstone, though he had borrowed Marmaduke's mouth-organ and lost it, and had Marmaduke's appendix all pickled in alcohol in a big bottle and wouldn't give it back, either. But they were all bigger than Marmaduke, so what could he do but sit on the fence and watch them, while his fingers fairly itched to catch one of those "flies."

And the crack of the bat against the ball did sound so fine across the field.

At last he couldn't stand it, so he got down from the fence, and shouted at them,

"I wouldn't play in your ole game--not for a _million dollars_!"

And off he walked towards his own barn, swinging his arms all the way, as if he were holding a bat and showing them just how well he could play. My! what long "flies" he would knock, if he only had the chance--over the dead chestnut tree, over the Gold Rooster on the top of the barn, and even above the Long White Finger of the Church Pointing at the Sky. Maybe, sometime, if he hit it hard enough and just right, the ball would sail on and on, and up and up, to the Moon: and the Ole Man there would catch it and throw it down to him again.

But he would have to practice a lot first, so, when he reached the house, he went in and found a ball of his own. He turned it over and over in his fingers, admiring it. It was a fine one, with leather as white as buckskin but very hard, and thick seams sewed in the cover with heavy thread, winding in and out in horseshoe curves.

It had a dandy name, too,--"Rocket," that was it. And he threw it up high up, up, up, until it reached the eaves of the barn and startled the swallows, who flew out and swept the sky with their pretty wings, chattering angrily at him.

He watched to see where the ball would fall, and ran under it, holding his hands like a little cup. It fell into them, but it fell _out_ even quicker than it had fallen in. Jiminy! but that ball was hard!

Marmaduke thought the man who made it should have left the "et" from its name and called it plain "Rock" instead. It was just like a rock covered with hard leather.

He tried it again, but he didn't throw it up quite so high.

"Crack!" it went against the side of the barn, and little clouds of hay-dust from the loft danced in the air, and the swallows chattered still more angrily:

"He persists--sists--sists--sists--sists," they called to one another.

This time the ball fell on his cheekbone and raised a lump as round and as hard as a marble.

He didn't cry. Oh, no! for he was trying hard these days to be a regular boy and never to cry even one little whimper. So he just went in the house and Mother put a kiss and some arnica on it--it is always more effective if mixed that way--and out he came and tried it all over again. For regular boys never give up. Of course, at first he threw the ball a little lower than before, but that was only wise. And this time it did fall into his hands and he held it tight. Over and over he practised until his hands were pretty red from catching the hard "Rocket" ball, but he felt very happy inside--which is what counts, for one doesn't mind being sore _outside_ if one is all right _within_.

However, all the time he could hear the sound of that bat over on the Miller lot. Then--all of a sudden--he heard an altogether different sort of noise--more like a crash and a smash than a crack.

"Gla.s.s!" that was it!

"Hooray!" he shouted in delight, "_now_ that Fatty's going to get it."

But he was wrong. Fatty was too plump to hit a ball so hard. It was d.i.c.ky Means that had done it. And, like Fatty, he was always up to tricks, only usually Fatty _planned_ them and d.i.c.ky _did_ them.

Yes, it was d.i.c.ky Means who had hit that ball right through Mis'

Miller's window, the big parlor window, too, and she expected the Methodist ladies of the Laborforlovesociety that very afternoon. There was Mis' Miller now, running out of the house and shrieking,--

"You younglimbosatan, you'll pay for that!"

"Pleeze, Mis' Miller, I haven't any money," d.i.c.ky was saying, very politely, with his eye on the broom she held in her hand, "I'll pay you tomorrow."

"No, you'll settle it _now_," she told him--very cross she was, too, "or I'll tell your mother, and your father'll paddle you in the woodshed." Then she added,--"an' you won't get your ball."

d.i.c.ky seemed to be more worried about the ball than about the woodshed, for he whined.

"Aw, pleeze, Mis' Miller, have a heart!"

You see, "Have a heart!" was an expression he had heard down in the city, and for the last week the boys had been using it every chance they got.

Still it didn't work on Mis' Miller, for she only shook her head angrily and took her broom and shouted,--

"Scat, get out!"--just as if they were so many cats--"an' don't come back for the ball till you come with the money in your hand."

And as everybody in the neighborhood used to say, "Gracious, but Mis'

Miller has a turrible temper!" or "Whew, but can't she get mad?" and because she was flourishing that broom right in their faces, why, they did scat like so many cats, just as she had told them.

Across the field they all came running, straight towards Marmaduke, who pretended not to see them at all, but just kept pa.s.sing his Rocket ball from one hand to the other, trying to juggle it like the trick men in the circus.

When they saw that ball, all the boys suddenly grew very polite to Marmaduke.

"Lend us your ball, Marmy!" they said.

"Wouldn't you like to have it!" he replied, still juggling the ball, but he watched them out of the corner of his eye. They had been pretty mean to him, but he supposed he ought to be decent even if they weren't, and besides it would be fine to play a real game with "sides"

instead of one just by himself.

"All right," he said, after making them wait long enough to want that ball very much, "if you'll play 'sides' 'stead of' two o' cat,' and let me be captain."

"Aw!" said d.i.c.ky, "you're not big enough."

"All right," replied Marmaduke, still juggling that fine Rocket ball, "you'll have to play with some ole rock then."

"Aw, come 'n, have a heart!"

Marmaduke thought it over for a little while. To "have a heart" was like "heaping coals of fire" on people's heads, in minister's language, he supposed. And he wasn't so fond of that. But anyway he gave in.

"All right," he agreed, "come 'n, where'll we play?"

"Here," said Fatty, "this big rock'll be home-plate, and that one over there by the chestnut tree 'first.' An' we'll choose up sides--first choosin'!"

Then d.i.c.ky, who insisted on being the other captain, picked up the bat and threw it with the handle uppermost to Fatty, who caught it around the middle. Then d.i.c.ky clasped his fingers around the bat just above Fatty's hand; then Fatty put his left hand above d.i.c.ky's right; and d.i.c.ky his left hand next; and so on until their fingers almost reached the handle of the bat. There was just a little s.p.a.ce left. If Fatty could squeeze his plump fingers in between d.i.c.ky's and the top he would win, and he could have first choice of the best players for his side. But his fingers were much too fat.

"Your pinky's over," said d.i.c.ky, and Reddy Toms picked up a flat stone and sc.r.a.ped it over the top of the bat, and Fatty howled and let go.

So it was d.i.c.ky's turn to choose, and Marmaduke waited breathlessly.

He hoped that he would be chosen first, second anyway. He ought to be, for wasn't it his ball they were going to play with!

But--

"I'll take Reddy," said d.i.c.ky;

"Sammy," said Fatty;

"Skinny," chose d.i.c.ky next;

"Froggy Waters," chose Fatty--and poor little Marmaduke was left to the last, as if he were the worst player in the whole world.