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Updated: May 21, 2025
Whenever the big fellow's undamaged eye caught sight of the cool, hostile smile on Darrin's face, Treadwell muttered savage words. Some hard body blows were parried and others exchanged. Both men were panting somewhat when the call of time closed the first round. Dave was ready quite twenty seconds before the call of time for the second round. Treadwell, however, took his full time in responding.
Just about three feet away from the plate, however, that ball took a most unexpected drop, and passed on fully eighteen inches under the swing of Darrin's stick. "Strike one!" At the next Darrin's judgment forbade him to offer, but the umpire judged it a fair ball, and called: "Strike two!" Dalzell, on the bench, was leaning forward now, his chin plunged in between his hands.
"Miss Meade is the young lady's name." "Then delight me by writing down a couple of reservations for me on Miss Meade's card." Darrin's face clouded slightly. "I'd like to, Treadwell, but the card is pretty crowded, and some other fellows " "One dance, anyway, then." "I will, then, if there's a space to be left, and if Miss Meade is agreeable," promised Dave, as he hurried away.
Midshipman Jetson threw up his hands, but Darrin's right fist landed across his offending mouth with such force as to fell the sulky midshipman flat to the earth. Having struck the blow, Midshipman Darrin stepped back, to give his opponent an unobstructed chance to rise to his feet. "What's this all about?" demanded Midshipman Hepson wonderingly.
"Old Dave will want only the bare facts; that will be enough for him. He'll cheerfully wait for details until some time when we're all graduated and meet in the service." Dave Darrin's reply was short, but characteristic: "Of course dear old Dick came through all right!
Then wheeling suddenly: "How did Darrin come to get cut in that fashion, anyway! Mr. Jetson, do you know anything about it?" "What do you mean, sir?" demanded Jetson, bridling. "Do you insinuate that I tried to put a scar on Mr. Darrin's face?" "I asked you what you knew about the accident if it were an accident?" Hepson pursued coldly. "Your 'if, sir, is insulting!"
In some respects Chichester's fielding work was better than the home team's. It was undying grit that won the battle -that and Dave Darrin's pitching. As the jubilant home fans left the ball grounds it was the general opinion that Dave Darrin was only the merest shade behind Dick Prescott as a pitcher. "Either one of them in the box," said Coach Luce to a friend, "and the game is half won."
Heading the line on Darrin's side of the street, Trent dashed around the corner, leading his sailormen at a run. Dalzell's men rushed into the fray at the same moment, Dave amid Dan, as ordered, bringing up the rear of the two files. On the instant that the two lines of charging, cheering sailormen came into sight, the Mexicans on the roof-top redoubled their fire.
Whether Darrin's prediction was realized will be discovered in the pages of the next volume of this series, which will be published shortly under the title, "Dave Darrin on Mediterranean Service; Or, With Dan Dalzell on European Duty."
Mindful of orders, Darrin's first act was to copy the division roster and the station bills. These he took to his room, placing them in a drawer of the desk, for future study. For the present, he wanted to get out into the open air. Though Ensign Dalzell had been directed to report on the quarter deck, he was not now there.
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