"But, my dear Tom, how can my socks have anything to do with the game?" questioned the dude, helplessly.
"Why, it's a psychological phenomena, Tubletts. Sort of an inter-mental telepathy, so to speak—a rhomboid compendium indexus, as it were. Of course you understand," said Tom, soberly.
"Why—ah—I don't think I do, Tom," stammered the dude. "But I can't loan the socks, really I can't!" And he backed away with all pos sible haste, while some of the students poked each other in the ribs and some laughed outright.
"Now then, here is where we go at 'em, hammer and tongs!" cried Dick, as he walked to the plate. And he met the first ball pitched and lined a beautiful three-bagger to deep center.
"Hurrah! That's the way to do it!" yelled Tom. "Leg it, old man, leg it!"
"We've struck our gait!" sang out another player. "Now, Tom, you've got to bring him home sure."
Tom was on the alert and after one strike man aged to send the ball down into left field. Dick came home and the batter got to second, although it was a tight squeeze.
Spud was up next, and this time his face wore a "do-or-die" look. He had two balls called on him, and then whack! his bat struck the baH and
