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قراءة كتاب Harper's Round Table, August 20, 1895

تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"

‏اللغة: English
Harper's Round Table,  August 20, 1895

Harper's Round Table, August 20, 1895

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 1


Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.




Decorative I

t was the ending of the ninth inning; the score stood 8 to 7 in Princeton's favor, but Harvard had only one man out, and the bases were full.

Was it any wonder that the Freshmen couldn't keep their seats, and that the very air seemed to hold its breath while Bradfield, '98, twisted the ball?

In the centre of the grand stand, where the orange and black was thickest, but the enthusiasm more controlled, stood a boy, his whole body quivering with nervous excitement, his eyes glued—as were all others—to the pitcher's box.

"Come in, now! look out! lead off!" the Harvard coach was saying, as the umpire's "one strike, two balls, two strikes, three balls," raised and dashed again the hopes of Princeton. Then came a moment of horrible nerve-destroying suspense, and then the umpire's calm and judicial—"striker out."

Above the cheers, which literally tore the air, the shrill discordant note of the boy's voice could be heard, yelling like mad for Princeton and '98.

"Who is that little fellow?" said a girl, just behind him to her companion. The boy turned like a flash.

"I'm Braddy's brother," he said, his chest still heaving, and his cheek glowing. "He's struck out seven men!"

The girl smiled, and an upper classman, who was next to him, patted him on the back.

"It's a proud day for Braddy's brother," he said, "and for '98 and Princeton, that is, if Harvard doesn't—" For a moment it looked as if Harvard would, for the regular thud of the ball against the catcher's glove was interrupted by the ominous crack of the bat, and the men on bases ran for their lives on the bare chance of a hit, or possibly an error.

But '98 was not going to let a hard-earned victory slip between her fingers like that; the short-stop fielded the swift grounder beautifully, and the runner was out at first.

There was a short cheer, then a long wordless, formless burst of triumph swelling out from a hundred throats. The crowd swarmed on the diamond, the Freshman nine was picked up and carried off the field, "Braddy" riding on the crest of a dangerous-looking wave which was formed by a seething, howling mob.

"Well," said the Senior, turning to his small neighbor, "how does 'Braddy's brother' feel now?"

But "Braddy's brother's" feelings were too deep for utterance; besides, he was trying to remember just how many times the Princeton Freshmen had won from Harvard in the last six years.

"Hullo, Dave! Dave Hunter!" called Bradfield, as a small boy passed near the group on the front campus. "Don't you want to take my brother off for a little while, and show him the town?"

Dave came up blushing with pleasure at having the man who had just pitched a winning game single him out.

"This is Dave Hunter, a special friend of mine, Bing," Braddy continued, turning to the little chap who was lying stretched out on the grass beside him, and who felt by this time as if he owned the whole campus and all the college buildings, for hadn't he been in the athletic club-house, the cage, and the 'gym.'? and wasn't he actually going to eat at a Freshman club, and sleep up in a college room? It was the greatest day of his life, his first taste of independence; and the glory of being "Braddy's brother" seemed to him beyond compare.

"Don't keep him too long, Dave," said Bradfield, as the two boys started off; "we'll have to get through dinner early if we want to hear the Seniors sing."

Young Bingham Bradfield nodded and blushed and smiled all the way down to the gate, as men in the different groups which they passed called out:

"There goes 'Braddy's brother,'" or, "Hullo, little Brad," or,