Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer. Duffield J. W.

over by surprise on the second. Then, on the third, he had cut loose that mighty “fadeaway” of his. For forty feet it had gone on a line – hesitated – swerved sharply down and in, and, evading Gunther’s despairing swing, plumped into the catcher’s mitt. And the howl that went up – and the mighty swoop of the fellows on the field – and the wild enthusiasm over Bert – and the bonfires – and the snake dances! Did he remember?

      “You certainly had me buffaloed that day, all right,” went on Gunther. “It isn’t often that I hit a foot above a ball, but that fadeaway of yours had me going. I simply couldn’t gauge it. It’s a teaser, for fair. You were the whole team that day.”

      “We had the luck, that’s all,” protested Bert. “The breaks of the game were with us.”

      “It wasn’t luck,” said Gunther, generously; “you simply outplayed us. But we did make you work to win,” he added, with a reminiscent smile.

      By this time, the tank had been replenished, and he was recalled from his “fanning bee” by the necessity of resuming his trip. Gunther had heard of the contest and had seen Bert’s name among the competitors, but had not associated it with the Wilson of baseball fame.

      “You can’t get away from the game,” he joked, referring to the ten contestants. “I see that you are still playing against a ‘nine.’ If that pun isn’t bad enough, I’ll go you one better – or worse – and bet that you’ll bowl them over like ninepins.”

      “Thanks, old man,” responded Bert. “I hope I’ll make a ‘strike.’ But now I’ll have to skip and cut out the merry jesting. Jump on your wheel and set the pace for me for the next ten miles or so.”

      “Swell chance of my making pace for that crackerjack you have there,” said Gunther, looking admiringly at the “Blue Streak,” “but I’ll try to keep alongside, anyway.”

      He had a surprisingly good machine and doubled Bert’s dare by riding twenty miles or more, before he finally hauled up and, with a warm handgrip, said goodby.

      “Two pleasant things to-day,” mused Bert, as he sped on, referring to the popular theory that events, good or bad, come in threes. “I guess the third will be in meeting good old Tom and Dick, when I swing into the City of Brotherly Love.”

      And pleasant it certainly was, when, after reporting to the checkers and timers at the club headquarters, and putting up his motorcycle, he turned toward the hotel where his chums awaited him with a royal welcome.

      “You’ve surely got off to a flying start, old top,” said Tom. “I hadn’t any idea that you’d hit this burg so soon. We’ve just fairly got in ourselves. But before anything else, let’s wrap ourselves about some eats. Are you hungry?”

      “Am I hungry?” echoed Bert. “Is a wolf hungry? Is a hawk hungry? Is a cormorant – say, lead me to it.”

      And at the bountiful table to which they straightway adjourned, Bert proved that none of the natural history specimens he had mentioned “had anything on him.” Nor did his friends lag far behind, and it is doubtful if three happier and fuller young fellows could have been found in Philadelphia, as, afterward, they discussed the events of the day. They were especially interested in Bert’s meeting with Gunther, as they themselves had taken part in that famous game. Dick’s mighty work with the stick on that occasion and Tom’s great steal home from third were matters of baseball history.