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“Crack!” it went against the side of the barn, and little clouds of hay-dust from the loft danced in the air, and the swallows chattered still more angrily:

“He persists–sists–sists–sists–sists,” they called to one another.

This time the ball fell on his cheekbone and raised a lump as round and as hard as a marble.

He didn’t cry. Oh, no! for he was trying hard these days to be a regular boy and never to cry even one little whimper. So he just went in the house and Mother put a kiss and some arnica on it–it is always more effective if mixed that way–and out he came and tried it all over again. For regular boys never give up. Of course, at first he threw the ball a little lower than before, but that was only wise. And this time it did fall into his hands and he held it tight. Over and over he practised until his hands were pretty red from catching the hard “Rocket” ball, but he felt very happy inside–which is what counts, for one doesn’t mind being sore outside if one is all right within.

However, all the time he could hear the sound of that bat over on the Miller lot. Then–all of a sudden–he heard an altogether different sort of noise–more like a crash and a smash than a crack.

“Glass!” that was it!

“Hooray!” he shouted in delight, “now that Fatty’s going to get it.”

But he was wrong. Fatty was too plump to hit a ball so hard. It was Dicky Means that had done it. And, like Fatty, he was always up to tricks, only usually Fatty planned them and Dicky did them.

Yes, it was Dicky Means who had hit that ball right through Mis’ Miller’s window, the big parlor window, too, and she expected the Methodist ladies of the Laborforlovesociety that very afternoon. There was Mis’ Miller now, running out of the house and shrieking,–

“You younglimbosatan, you’ll pay for that!”

“Pleeze, Mis’ Miller, I haven’t any money,” Dicky was saying, very politely, with his eye on the broom she held in her hand, “I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll settle it now,” she told him–very cross she was, too, “or I’ll tell your mother, and your father’ll paddle you in the woodshed.” Then she added,–“an’ you won’t get your ball.”

Dicky seemed to be more worried about the ball than about the woodshed, for he whined.

“Aw, pleeze, Mis’ Miller, have a heart!”

You see, “Have a heart!” was an expression he had heard down in the city, and for the last week the boys had been using it every chance they got.

Still it didn’t work on Mis’ Miller, for she only shook her head angrily and took her broom and shouted,–

“Scat, get out!”–just as if they were so many cats–“an’ don’t come back for the ball till you come with the money in your hand.”

And as everybody in the neighborhood used to say, “Gracious, but Mis’ Miller has a turrible temper!” or “Whew, but can’t she get mad?” and because she was flourishing that broom right in their faces, why, they did scat like so many cats, just as she had told them.

Across the field they all came running, straight towards Marmaduke, who pretended not to see them at all, but just kept passing his Rocket ball from one hand to the other, trying to juggle it like the trick men in the circus.

When they saw that ball, all the boys suddenly grew very polite to Marmaduke.

“Lend us your ball, Marmy!” they said.

“Wouldn’t you like to have it!” he replied, still juggling the ball, but he watched them out of the corner of his eye. They had been pretty mean to him, but he supposed he ought to be decent even if they weren’t, and besides it would be fine to play a real game with “sides” instead of one just by himself.

“All right,” he said, after making them wait long enough to want that ball very much, “if you’ll play ‘sides’ ‘stead of’ two o’ cat,’ and let me be captain.”