Her escort explained what he meant, and she looked relieved.

"A minute later, he tried it again," he went on, "but this time the ball was too quick for him, and the runner died at third."

"Oh, how dreadful! I suppose he had been running so hard that his heart gave out."

Bill nudged Lester, whose face was purple with his efforts to restrain himself.

Again her escort patiently explained that the incident at third had been in no sense a tragedy.

"That made two out," he went on, "but the next man at the bat lammed the horsehide--No," he interrupted himself hurriedly, as he saw another question trembling on her lips, "the horse wasn't in the hide. I mean, he hit the ball and made a home run. That rattled the pitcher and he went up in the air."

"Let's get out," whispered Bill to Lester. "I can see that she'll ask him whether it was a baseball game or an aviation meet."

"It's his own fault," replied Lester, as he followed his companion to another part of the stand where they could give free vent to their mirth. "You can't blame her for not understanding baseball slang. I'll bet after this that he'll stick to plain English."

"Look at those clouds coming up!" exclaimed Bill suddenly. "I'm afraid rain's coming before the game is over."

"And our fellows behind," groaned Lester.

"We ought to have 'got the hay in' before this," said Bill, as Tom's doggerel of the morning came back to him.

The Mount Vernon team was quick to see its advantage and began to play for time.

They were ahead, and as more than five innings had been played, it would be called a complete game and credited to them, if they could keep their opponents from scoring before the rain came down.

With this end in view, they began a series of movements designed to delay the game. The Rally Hall boys were at the bat and it was the beginning of the seventh inning. They were desperate in their desire to tie or go ahead of the enemy. Those two runs loomed bigger and bigger, as the game drew near its end.

"We've got to get a move on, fellows," admonished Fred, as his side came to bat.

"And in an awful hurry, too," agreed Melvin.

"The time's short even if the rain doesn't come," declared Ned. "But from the look of those clouds, we won't play a full game. Make this the 'lucky seventh' and crack out a couple of runs."

"How are we going to get anything, if that pitcher doesn't put it over?"

asked Tom, as he stood at the plate, bat in hand. "Hi, there," he called to the boxman. "Put the ball over the plate and I'll kill it."

"Take your time," drawled the pitcher, as he bent over, pretending to tie his shoe lace. "I'll strike you out soon enough."

That shoe lace seemed very hard to tie, judging from the time he spent in doing it. At last, when he could not keep up the pretence any longer, he straightened up and took his position in the box. Then, something about the ball seemed to attract his attention. He looked at it earnestly and signaled to the captain who walked in slowly from centre field. He in turn beckoned to the first baseman, and the three joined in conversation at the pitcher's box.

By this time, the crowd had caught the idea, and a storm of protest broke out from the stands.

"Play ball!"

"Cut out the baby act!"

"Can't you win without the rain?"

"What a crowd of quitters!"

"Be sports and play the game!"

"They're showing a yellow streak!"

"The white feather, you mean!"

Most of the protests came from the Rally Hall followers, but a good many also of the home team's supporters were disgusted at these unsportsmanlike tactics.

Teddy rushed up to the umpire, his eyes blazing.

"Are you going to stand for this?" he asked. "What kind of a deal are we getting in this town, anyway?"

The umpire, who had tried to be strictly impartial, raised his hand soothingly.

"Go easy, son," he replied. "I was only waiting to make sure. I'll see that you get fair play.

"Cut out that waiting stuff," he called to the pitcher, "and play ball."

The pitcher took his position in the box, but the captain strolled toward centre field at a snail's pace.

"Hurry up there now," ordered the umpire. "I'll give you till I count ten to get out in the field. If you're not there by that time, I'll put you out of the game."

"I'm going, am I not?" retorted the captain, still creeping along.

"One," said the umpire. "Two. Three."

The captain's pace quickened.

"Four. Five. Six."

The captain broke into a trot.

"Seven. Eight. Nine."

But by this time the captain had reached his position. It was evident that the umpire meant what he said.

"Now, put them over," he ordered the pitcher, "and I'll send you to the bench, if I see any signs of holding back. Play ball."

There was no further delay, and the pitcher shot the ball over the plate. Tom, true to his promise, "killed" the ball, sending a scorching liner between second and third that netted him two bases. Fred sacrificed him to third by laying a beautiful bunt down on the first base line. Morley hit the ball a resounding crack, but it went straight to the second baseman, who made a great stop and nipped Tom as he came rushing in to the plate. A long fly to centre field ended the inning, and gloom settled down on the boys from Rally Hall.

"Seven goose eggs in a row," groaned Billy Burton.

"Never mind," said Fred cheerily, as he picked up his glove. "We're getting on to his curves now. Did you see how we belted him in that inning? No pop-up flies, but good solid welts. The breaks in the luck were against us but they won't be always."

As though to back up his words of cheer, the sun at that instant broke through the clouds and the field was flooded with light.

"Hurrah!" yelled Teddy, throwing up his hat. "It isn't going to rain after all."

"Those were only wind clouds," exulted Melvin.