He had no thought of anything happening to detain him on the way. Frank might have enemies bitter enough to attempt such mean tactics, but thus far Ralph did not know of any person who would have an object in keeping him out of the game, unless it might be that undesirable character, Watkins Gould, who staked his money on Bellport that other day, and lost. So Ralph had covered about half of the distance, and was aiming for a spot where, emerging from the thick woods, he knew he could strike a road leading directly to the athletic field. “What was that?” he asked himself, suddenly stopping in his quick walk, for he thought he had caught a sound not unlike the sobbing of a child. It seemed to well up from the thicket on his right. Perhaps Ralph may have had one fleeting suspicion that there could be a trick connected with the matter; but when he heard the piteous cry a second time he plunged straight toward the spot. CHAPTER XIII LED BY A KINDLY FATE “Well, I declare!” Ralph West stood rooted to the spot for a couple of seconds, as he allowed this exclamation to escape from his lips. Perhaps he had half expected to have a couple of fellows pounce upon him as he pushed the branches aside; which would account for the manner in which his fists were clenched, and his teeth set. What he saw was an entirely different spectacle. A little girl was seated on a hummock, rocking to and fro, with her childish face tear-stained, and full of bodily anguish. The blood upon her hand told that she must have fallen and hurt herself badly. No doubt it was the sight of the blood that frightened her even more than the pain. Ralph sprang forward, and the tear-stained face was turned up to him eagerly. “What’s happened to you, little one?” asked the boy, as he bent down. Already had he taken a clean handkerchief out, and shaken it from its folds. Thank goodness he had supplied himself liberally, with a hot game before him. Picking up the mangled hand, he saw that it was in need of immediate attention, as possibly a heavy rock had fallen on the fingers. Ralph began to tenderly wrap his handkerchief about the torn fingers, at the same time speaking soothingly to the child. She had ceased crying and was looking at him wonderingly. Doubtless his baseball uniform astonished her greatly. “It fell on me,” she managed to say, pointing to something near by; and Ralph saw that his surmise had been correct in so far as it concerned a stone. “But what are you doing here; where do you live?” he asked, anxiously. The child should not be left here in these woods with so serious a wound as the crushed fingers would likely prove. And yet his time was not wholly his own, since he must be on the field presently in order to practice before the calling of the great game. “I’m Mary Smalling,” said the child, with utmost confidence and simplicity, as if every one ought to know after that.