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18 struck without hitting. But the catcher, with that red-stockinged figure racing toward him, made his one error of the game. The ball glanced from his mitt and rolled back of the plate, and although he had thrown off his mask and was after it like a cat after a mouse, he was too late. Chub Eaton was lying in a cloud of dust with one hand on the plate, and the crowd was streaming, shouting and dancing, onto the field.