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 away from the games. I guess I'm a real fan, all right, and I'll be worse than ever with Kingsbridge winning from Bancroft, and—and Lefty pitching. He's surely what they can call some pitcher. And he can fight—gracious!"

She shivered a bit at the recollection of the scene she had witnessed after the game was over. Again she seemed to behold those fighting men hammering at each other with their bare fists, savage, bloodstained, brutal. She shuddered at the remembered glare of their eyes, the wheezing of their panted breathing, and the crushing sound of their blows. From her parted lips came a little gasp, as once more on her ears seemed to fall the clear crack of Tom Locke's fist smiting his foe full on the point of the jaw with such force that Hoover's legs had given way beneath him like props of straw.

"He can pitch, and he can fight," she whispered. "He looks clean and manly, too. I wonder what he's really like. I suppose he must be coarse and vulgar. When father hears about that affair, he'll be far more set against the game than ever, and he's sure to hear, for the whole town must be talking of it now."

While she made her toilet for tea, the clean-cut, determined face of the young pitcher seemed to