It was one Wednesday afternoon, two weeks after the grammar school game. Two other unimportant contests had been won and in three days Amesville was to play the first of its two scheduled games with Lynton High School. Joe, with a half-dozen others, was at the batting-net and Williams, a bit bored and listless, was pitching. Buster Healey had finally managed to line one to the equally bored substitutes who were fielding the balls, and had stepped aside, giving place to Joe. Joe had already been up once and had had a hard time getting his hit in spite of the fact that Toby was putting very little on the ball. And now he was just as hopeless as ever he had been as he hitched his trousers and gripped his bat. “Soak it, Faulkner,” said Cummings lazily. “I want another whack at it before Toby’s arm gives out.” Toby, picking up one of the half-dozen balls that surrounded him, grinned: “If he hits before I get three over on him I’ll chase it myself.” “That’s a sporting proposition, Faulkner,” exclaimed Hale. “Go to it! I’d love to see Williams trot over to the fence and back!” Toby was a little more crafty now, took a full wind-up and shot a drop over the base-bag which did duty as a plate. Buster, leaning on his bat behind the net, announced a strike. “It was a peach, Toby. Now don’t let him work you again, Joe. Watch for a slow one.” “This is going to be a beaner,” laughed Toby. “Look out!” But it came waist-high, broke to the left, and failed to win Buster’s approval. “Ball, Toby,” he said. “Too wide. Come on, now, show your goods!” Toby’s reply to the challenge was a fast ball with a slight curve and Joe guessed it right. Bat and ball met and, although Joe made only a half-swing, the sphere sped straight over Toby’s head――he ducked involuntarily, to the delight of the batters――and travelled far back down the field. “Don’t touch it!” bawled Buster. “Let it alone, Loomis! Now, then, Toby, shake a leg, old scout! You said you’d field it, you know.” Toby smiled wanly and kept his promise, jogging far down the field to the surprise of the fielders and the gleeful chortles of the batting squad. “That was a peach,” declared Steve Hale as Joe, as much surprised as Toby Williams, measured the hit and relinquished his place to Cummings. Joe looked indifferent, but secretly he was as pleased as Punch. There’s something delightfully heartening in the feel and sound of a good, clean hit, and as Joe moved back he still felt the tingle in his palms and experienced an inward glow of satisfaction. That, he reflected, was the first hit he could remember that he had been entirely satisfied with! Of course, it had been made in practice instead of in a game, but still Toby had really been trying to fool him and some measure of credit was due him.