FullReads

“Aw!” said Dicky, “you’re not big enough.”

“All right,” replied Marmaduke, still juggling that fine Rocket ball, “you’ll have to play with some ole rock then.”

“Aw, come ‘n, have a heart!”

Marmaduke thought it over for a little while. To “have a heart” was like “heaping coals of fire” on people’s heads, in minister’s language, he supposed. And he wasn’t so fond of that. But anyway he gave in.

“All right,” he agreed, “come ‘n, where’ll we play?”

“Here,” said Fatty, “this big rock’ll be home-plate, and that one over there by the chestnut tree ‘first.’ An’ we’ll choose up sides–first choosin’!”

Then Dicky, who insisted on being the other captain, picked up the bat and threw it with the handle uppermost to Fatty, who caught it around the middle. Then Dicky clasped his fingers around the bat just above Fatty’s hand; then Fatty put his left hand above Dicky’s right; and Dicky his left hand next; and so on until their fingers almost reached the handle of the bat. There was just a little space left. If Fatty could squeeze his plump fingers in between Dicky’s and the top he would win, and he could have first choice of the best players for his side. But his fingers were much too fat.

“Your pinky’s over,” said Dicky, and Reddy Toms picked up a flat stone and scraped it over the top of the bat, and Fatty howled and let go.

So it was Dicky’s turn to choose, and Marmaduke waited breathlessly. He hoped that he would be chosen first, second anyway. He ought to be, for wasn’t it his ball they were going to play with!

But–

“I’ll take Reddy,” said Dicky;

“Sammy,” said Fatty;

“Skinny,” chose Dicky next;

“Froggy Waters,” chose Fatty–and poor little Marmaduke was left to the last, as if he were the worst player in the whole world.

“Well,” said Dicky, “I spouse I’ve got to take him. But he’ll lose the game for us.”

He turned to Marmaduke.

“I’ll tell you what, Marmy,” he said, “you can be the spectators–a whole pile of them–in the grand stand. Wouldn’t you like to be a grand stand? That’s great. Isn’t it, fellows?”

“Sure,” they all said, grinning, but Marmaduke didn’t want to be any spectator, not even a grand stand. He wanted to be doing things, not watching. Lose that game, would he? No, he’d show them, he’d win it instead. He’d hit that ball clean over the fence–so far they’d never find it. But whew! That wouldn’t do. He’d better not hit it quite so far or he’d lose his dandy Rocket ball.

But they had to give in and let him play before he would give them that ball. Then the two captains told their men to take their positions.

“I’ll pitch,” declared Dicky, “‘n Reddy’ll catch. Skinny you play ‘first,’ and Marmaduke out in the field. You kin go to sleep, too, for all I care–for you can’t catch anything even if you had a peach basket to hold it in.”

“Play ball!” shouted Fatty, and they all took their places, Dicky’s team in the field, and Fatty’s at the bat.

Marmaduke had to stand way out, and he didn’t have much to do for a while, for the other team either struck out, or hit the ball towards Dicky, the pitcher, or Skinny at ‘first.’ Once a ball did come his way “Hold it!” shouted Dicky, but Marmaduke was so excited that he threw himself right at it, and the ball rolled between his legs.

“Aw! didn’t I tell you?” said Dicky in disgust, and all on the other team shouted:

“Butterfingers!”

And, as every boy in the world knows, it is a great disgrace to be called “Butterfingers.”

When the first inning was over the score stood six to five, and Fatty’s team was ahead.

In the next inning the ball never once came towards Marmaduke, way out there in the field. All he could do was to watch the other boys catch the “pop-flies,” stop the grounders, or run back and forth between first base and home. It was hard, too, when Marmaduke wanted so much to be in the thick of it.