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Updated: May 11, 2025
More frightened than touched by the woman's desperation, James Smith stammered a vague apologetic disclaimer, even while he was loathing with a revulsion new to him her draggled finery, her still more faded beauty, and the half-distinct consciousness of guilt that linked her to him. But she waved it away, a weary gesture that again reminded him of the dead Scranton.
But Hugh, who had secretly been the first to suggest to the captain of the other Seven that Nick be chosen, somehow believed the one-time bully of Scranton might surprise his critics for once by playing a straight, honest game. Hugh, of course, was mounted on his new silver skates.
"To think," added Thad, assuming a lofty air of superior knowledge, "of a fellow attending Scranton High believing the ridiculous yarns these uneducated tillers of the soil and their hired help pass around, about there being some sort of a genuine ghost haunting the old quarry why, it's positively silly of you, Julius, and I don't mind telling you so to your face."
There was a reason for this, of course, since the latter team had proven to be so woefully weak that they had not thus far managed to win a single game, and were out of the race for the pennant. On the other hand, Scranton, while beaten in the first combat with the locals, had fought gamely, though terribly handicapped by the absence of their regular star pitcher.
To lower himself to where the imperiled boy clung he had to take advantage of numerous projecting points of rock that offered him a foothold, or a place where he could hang on with his hands. Hugh was as nimble as any boy in Scranton, which fact proved of great advantage to him just then. Had it been otherwise, he might have himself fallen, and there would then have been a double tragedy.
There was Alan Tyree, for instance, whose masterly pitching had done so much to land the pennant of the Three Town High School League that season for Scranton; Owen Dugdale, the efficient shortstop of the local nine; "Just" Smith, whose real name it happened was Justin, but who seldom heard it outside of school and home.
The head of the enemy's column on the Blackland and Booneville road came in contact with my pickets three miles and a half west of Booneville. These pickets, under Lieutenant Leonidas S. Scranton, of the Second Michigan Cavalry, fell back slowly, taking advantage of every tree or other cover to fire from till they arrived at the point where the converging roads joined.
There had been considerable of a change in connection with the big open field where the boys of Scranton were allowed by the town council and mayor to play baseball, and also football, since summer waned.
We jumped out of the ashes into the fire, as it turned out. At Scranton our train was held up. There were torpedoes on the track; rails torn up or something. For want of something better to do, we went out to take a look at the town. At the head of the main street was a big crowd.
After knocking Belleville down last Saturday, it would look bad for Scranton to be snowed under by an outside nine without any reputation, as they have hardly played together this season so far." "Oh! I haven't forgotten my promise to Mr. Saunders and you, Hugh," protested the reliable backstop of the high-school team "I'm too fond of baseball to neglect any chance for playing.
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