Will I—will any of us ever forget that duel? Camme and his people came upon the ground almost at the same time as we. It was behind the mill of Longchamps, of course. Roubault was one of Camme’s seconds, and he carried the ball in a lacquered Japanese tobacco-jar—gingerly as if it were a bomb. We were quick getting to work. Camme and "This Animal of a Buldy Jones" were each to take his baseball in his hand, stand back to back, walk away from each other just the distance between the pitcher’s box and the home plate (we had seen to that), turn on the word, and—deliver their balls. "How do you feel?" I whispered to our principal, as I passed the ball into his hands. "I feel just as if I was going into a match game, with the bleachers full to the top and the boys hitting her up for Yale. We ought to give the yell, y’ know." "How’s the ball?" "A bit soft and not quite round. Bernard of the Harvard nine hit the shape out of it in a drive over our left field, but it’ll do all right." "This Animal of a Buldy Jones" bent and gathered up a bit of dirt, rubbed the ball in it, and ground it between his palms. The man’s arms were veritable connecting-rods, and were strung with tendons like particularly well-seasoned rubber. I remembered what he said about few catchers being able to hold him, and I recalled the pads and masks and wadded gloves of a baseball game, and I began to feel nervous. If Camme was hit on the temple or over the heart— "Now, say, old man, go slow, you know. We don’t want to fetch up in Mazas for this. By the way, what kind of ball are you going to give him? What’s the curve?" "I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll let him have an up-shoot. Never make up my mind till the last moment." "All ready, gentlemen!" said Roubault, coming up. Camme had removed coat, vest, and cravat. "This Animal of a Buldy Jones" stripped to a sleeveless undershirt. He spat on his hands, and rubbed a little more dirt on the ball. "Play ball!" he muttered. We set them back to back. On the word they paced from each other and paused. "This Animal of a Buldy Jones" shifted his ball to his right hand, and, holding it between his fingers, slowly raised both his arms high above his head and a little over one shoulder. With his toe he made a little depression in the soil, while he slowly turned the ball between his fingers. "Fire!" cried "Horse" Wilson. On the word "This Animal of a Buldy Jones" turned abruptly about on one foot, one leg came high off the ground till the knee nearly touched the chest—you know the movement and position well—the uncanny contortions of a pitcher about to deliver. Camme threw his ball overhand—bowled it as is done in cricket, and it went wide over our man’s shoulder. Down came Buldy Jones’ foot, and his arm shot forward with a tremendous jerk. Not till the very last moment did he glance at his adversary or measure the distance. "It is an in-curve!" exclaimed "Horse" Wilson in my ear.