"Oh! pshaw," said Jack, impatiently. "Have sense. Tell me if there is any bliss comparable to that of having a sweet little darling always in the house when you want her?" "Suppose she is there when you do not want her?" "I can not admit any such supposition. Go and play your game." "I will." "You and Maltravers ought to be in the same game." "Why?" "Because it is 'base.'" "Oh!" cried the professor. "What have I done to deserve this? You have called it 'base.' I must go and get a 'ball' after that." He walked to a closet in which he knew Jack kept sundry bottles of wine and liquors, and helped himself to a draught of brandy. "Well, boys," he exclaimed, "I must leave you, and you can bet your high monkey munk, as friend Merrifield says, that I will do all that lays in my power to uphold the honor of old England, and the flag that for a thousand years has braved the battle and the breeze." Waving his arm grandly he quitted the apartment, and making all his preparations, started for the place appointed for the match. The Blue Stockings were a pretty strong team and had beaten the Reds the year previously, but it was said the Reds had improved greatly, and a spirited contest was expected. Mr. Mole knew nothing whatever about the game, but was wise enough to keep his mouth shut, until he was spoken to. His side lost the choice of innings and had to take the field. The professor became much interested in seeing the men run from base to base, and did not look out keenly enough. What was the consequence? A ball struck him with fearful force below the knee. He ought to have stopped it or caught it, but he didn't, and he fell to the ground with a broken leg. "Oh! oh!" he cried, "I'm killed." Morris Hart ran up to see what was the matter. "Why didn't you stop the ball?" he asked. "It came so fast, I couldn't," groaned the unhappy professor. "I thought you were used to fast bowling and could play the game." "So I thought." "It's my opinion you're a first-class fraud." "Don't abuse me, there is a good fellow," said Mole. "Send for an ambulance and have me taken to the hospital: I'm in great pain and can't walk." "If that is so, pardon me." "My leg is broken." "I'm sorry, but I always knew it took an American to play base-ball." "Give me cricket," moaned Mr. Mole. "It is a decent and respectable game. You don't want to get your life insured before you engage in it." Morris Hart could not refrain from smiling; but he hurried away to get a conveyance which would take Mr. Mole to the hospital. He would have sent him to his hotel, but the professor wished to have the best advice he could get, and he knew he was sure of having excellent treatment at a hospital. Accordingly he was taken to a hospital in New York and put to bed, when the surgeon set the broken leg and assured him that in a few weeks he would be able to get about again on crutches.