The captain of the "Tigers" nodded and hit the descending ball with all his force a little too far for Red to reach. A quick glance showed the impending catastrophe. "Hey, kid, get out of the way," he yelled. The warning came too late. The ball skimmed over the grass, struck a hummock which had been overlooked by the builders of the diamond, and ricochetted upward into the hapless Mosher youngster's stomach. Yells filled the air. Skinny, unwilling slave, stooped over his prostrate brother. "Hurt much?" he queried anxiously. John glanced at his watch in boredom, for such occurrences had lost their novelty long months ago. "Paper time," he called, as he made for the tracks. A last glance back before the dairy buildings cut off the view, showed the wailing infant trudging sturdily toward the walk. Every line of his figure indicated maddened determination to tell his mother on the whole team. Tuesday and Wednesday sped past. It became more and more apparent that a substitute for Joe Menard must be found if the "Tigers" were to have even a fighting chance of holding their own with the ancient enemy. Time and again Haldane Harrison took his place to whip a few slightly curving balls down to the critical Silvey, only to realize that his knowledge of the art was sadly deficient. They all had a try at it, eventually, while Sid stood by with a sarcastic grin on his face and watched their futile efforts. The next noon, John walked home with Louise, a custom sadly broken since the baseball season had begun, and passed a stockily built lad who was bouncing a baseball against the side of a house but a few doors from the Martin's apartment. On the way back, he stopped to watch. The newcomer returned his stare with equal interest. "'Lo," said John, as he walked nearer. "'Lo," said the boy with an ingratiating smile. "My name's John Fletcher." "Mine's Francis Yager," spoken with equal curtness. "Live here?" asked the first baseman of the "Tigers." The boy admitted that such was the case. "There's my house," explained John, pointing with an inkstained finger. There was an awkward silence. Francis bounced his ball against the side of the house a few times. "Ever play baseball?" asked John, as the boy made a difficult catch of an erratic return from a drain pipe. The newcomer turned, his face lighted with interest. "Just bet you!" he beamed. "Back home we had a team and I played--" "Pitcher?" asked John, breathlessly. The new boy nodded. Truly the fates were proving kind to the "Tigers" that day. "What can you throw?" "An 'in,' and an 'out,' and a 'slow ball.'" The expert paused in the summary of his attainments. "Last year, I was just getting so's I could pitch a drop. But it didn't work very well."