Scorekeeper Continued Piggy didn't know. His father had brought it home to him last night, the mitt and the bat. He never would tell him how much things cost. "It's not the cost that counts," he'd say. "It's the value that you put on it yourself.:" Piggy didn't ever know what his Dad meant when he said things like that. He didn't like to let the kids think he didn't know how much things cost, so he just put a price on it himself. "Three-fifty," he told Joe, adding the fifty cents to make it sound real. "Gee!" Joe had the mitt on, and he was flexing the fingers. "Three-fifty! Gee!" He turned to Piggy. "Let me try it a while, will-ya? Here, you use mine, an' let me try this good ol' Joe Gordon." He took a battered and scratched glove from his hip pocket and threw it to Piggy. When Piggy put it on, he could feel the padding coming loose inside. "Where's all the fellers?" Harry took a thick watch from the front of his overalls. "I dunno," he said. "It's time they-as comin'." He put back the watch. "Well, come on," he said. "Let's knock a few. The Whittier guys'll be comin' up pretty soon." Joe thew them to Harry, who knocked grounders with Piggy's new bat. Piggy would shag the ones they missed, then he would throw the ball back to Joe. He didn't do badly, though. He didn't miss many. He hoped Harry was watching. Maybe, even if all the kids came, Harry would let him start. The rest of the team showed up one by one. Then, after a while, there was a shout down by the front steps, and they saw the Whittier team stringing through the gate. They had their bats slung over their shoulders, with mitts and masks strung along some of them. They wore white shirts with WHITTIER written in blue letters across the front. This was something new, and Piggy could see they were proud of it. They swaggered across the diamond, and threw their bats down along the first base line. Harry walked up to Rogue Belden, their captain. "Hi ja, Rogue," he called. "Where'd ya get the new shirts?" "Ye like 'em?" Rogue said, throwing out his broad chest. "Purty nifty, huh?" "Oh, they're not much," Harry said. "I seen some just like 'em down at Sears'." "Yeh?" Rogue said. "Well, what if ye did? I don't see you Lafayette guys wearin' none." Harry called his team in, and the Whittier boys went into the field and began throwing the ball about. Harry was holding a little score book, and he looked about, then called out a name. He was making out the batting order. Piggy didn't expect his name to be called until near the end, even if Harry did let him play. He stood back near the rim where a group of neighborhood kids were watching. Piggy knew that Harry would let him play if he could. Sometimes Piggy was a pretty good batter. If the other team had a pitcher that didn't throw them too fast, sometimes Piggy would get hold of one. If he could get his weight behind it, he could knock the ball farther than anyone on the team. If the pitcher was able to throw fast ones across, though, he couldn't see the ball, and he usually struck out. 'Piggy, You start at third." Piggy felt the perspiration come out in the palms of his hands. He clenched his fingers and looked about at the neighborhood kids that surrounded him. He didn't want them to know how he felt. Lafayette was the home team, so they had their first outs. Piggy took his place at the left of the diamond, feeling good and important. There weren't as many balls knocked down toward third, and he knew this was why Harry had put him there. He got Page Eight along all right, throwing the ball around, but when the first Whittier batter got ready to come to the plate, he felt his knees go weak and rubbery. His stomach burned. He wished he had his own mitt, but Joe hadn't offered to return it, so he kept Joe's old one. There was no pocket in it, and the fingers were limp and frayed. The kids on the sidelines had got together and formed a cheering squad, and as the first man stepped up to the home-plate, they began their cheer. Up the River, Down the lake Whittier's got The belly-ache! That was another thing Harry had done. He had got the kids together and taught them how to cheer, just like it was done at the high school games, and up at the college. Piggy thought their cheers were better, even than the ones the high school had. He had made one of them up, and he hoped the kids would use it now. It went like this: Chop 'em hard, Chop 'em good! Chop 'em up To kindling wood! Then he didn't have any more time to think about it. The first batter bit the first ball, knocked it rolling to Harry at short-stop. Harry picked it up and slammed it to first. One out! The kids on the side cheered, and Piggy felt better. Two more now and Lafayette would be up at bat. The second man knocked a pop-foul. It came down right near the pitcher's box, and Joe should have got it, but Harry waved him away. He ran in and stood under it until it came down, plop into his glove. He banged it toward first, and the infielders threw it around. Piggy caught it, then dropped it, picked it up and threw it to Joe on the mound. "Hang on to them, Piggy!" Harry called half-reprovingly. Piggy had just got himself feeling good. There was only one more man to get out. Now, missing the hard throw from Harry, it was like his insides were tied up in a knot again. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward, his hands on his knees; then he straightened and pounded his mitt with his fist. The reason he'd missed that throw, he told himself, was because there was no padding in Joe's glove. Harry had thrown the ball like a bullet, and it had burnt his hand. His fingers had refused to close over it, and the ball had bounded out on the ground. "Ball four!" Joe walked this man. Piggy could hear Harry's voice in his ear, but he didn't look at him. He was straining in toward homeplate. On the first throw to the next man, Rogue Belden, the Whittier runner stole second. Harry had told the catcher to let them run, not to try to peg it down. They'd lost too many that way. On a good over-throw a man could make it from second clear home. But Piggy knew that if the runner tried to steal again, they would peg it third. His nervousness increased as Joe began his stretch, just like the pitchers in the Valley League did. "Piggy!" He knew the man must be trying to steal. He saw the ball streaking toward him from the catcher. It struck his mitt. He held on, but he turned too slow to catch the runner. It was as though he had forgotten for a moment. When he turned, the boy was standing on the pile of rocks that marked third base, teetering to hold his balance. "S'matter, Tubby?" he grinned. Piggy flushed. He threw the ball back to Joe, who stood scowling in the pitcher's box. Harry walked up to him. "That's all right," he said. "You held him on third. He didn't score." But Piggy knew he should have tagged the runner. He'd had plenty of time. He took off his glove and rubbed the bright red spot in the center of his palm. He glanced toward home-plate Rogue1 Belden was standing, leaning on his bat and laughing. "Come on, Rogue! A homer!" the Whittier kids were yelling. "Paste it out, Rogue!" Piggy gritted his teeth. He wished he had his own mitt. Joe didn't need it. Hardly any balls were knocked to the pitcher. He'd tell Joe. After this inning, he'd tell Joe he wanted to use his own mitt. "Strike one." "That's the way, Joe. That's the boy," Piggy heard Harry calling at his left. (continued on page 14) Page "Nine