“A peach of a drop,” muttered George Porter admiringly. “All right, Tom!” called Sam, thoroughly enjoying himself. “One more, now, just like it!” But only two fingers lay against the mitt this time and when the ball broke it curved cannily to the left, and Joe, backing away from it, heard again Mr. Brown’s fateful, “Strike--two!” A howl went up from the watchers, who now began to cluster behind Mr. Brown in their desire to watch the breaks. “Right over now, Tom!” Sam held his hands wide and Tom nodded, wiped one palm on his trousers, poised the ball and shot it forward. Joe declared that he never saw it from the time it left the pitcher’s hand until he looked around and saw it in Sam’s mitten. “Talk about your fast ones!” he marvelled. “Say, honest, fellows, that ball _travelled_!” “He’s out!” called Steve, and there was a rush to take his place. George Meldrum secured it, and after him Tom Crossbush, and then a dozen others tried their fortunes. But not a hit resulted. In-shoot and out, slow ball and fast, drop and floater, high ball and low, succeeded each other, Sam changing the pace in a thoroughly bewildering manner and Tom answering every signal. Finally Steve Brown tried his luck and, after slamming ineffectually twice, managed to roll the ball a dozen yards toward third base. Then Mr. Gifford, egged on by the boys, had his inning and, when Tom had fooled him on two low ones at which he made no offer, caught a fast one and sent it arching into right field, so winning much applause. “Foul!” declared Steve Brown. “_What!_” demanded Mr. Gifford. “Foul!” “Robber!” shrieked the batter, imitating an infuriated player and brandishing his bat over Steve’s head. “You’re a bum umpire!” “The bench for youse,” growled Steve. “Off the field!” “How much are they payin’ yer?” “That’ll be about all,” returned Steve, with much dignity. “You’re fined ten dollars.” Mr. Gifford, disgustedly hurling his bat to the ground and then kicking it out of the way, stalked off, muttering, to the delight of the fellows. On the way back to the camp Tom was surrounded by a guard of admiring youths who begged him to show them how to pitch that drop or that floater. Sidney was no longer the hero. The visitors had a good time every minute. They joined the boys in the water at “plunge,” ate ravenously of everything set before them at supper, declaring themselves “strong for those doughnuts,” and entered into everything that came along with genuine enthusiasm. Tom conducted a class in pitching after supper until it was too dark to see the ball. Later, at camp-fire, Mr. Langham called on the guests for entertainment. Tom begged off, but Sidney, who appeared to be in the most boisterous spirits, declared that if someone had a concertina he would chant them a ditty. He finally compromised on a banjo, however, and when he had picked at it a moment, broke out into a monotonous tune to which he supplied words as follows: