“I’d like to have a crack at that ball,” said Don Mercer, with a grin. His brother Jim returned the grin as he said: “Let’s go out on the field and ask the kids to toss us one. They won’t mind giving us one swing at it.” The two Mercer brothers were standing at the edge of a large vacant lot near the center of their home town one morning late in June. They had been home from Woodcrest Military Institute for a week now on their summer vacation, and this particular day, having nothing more exciting to do, they had wandered around the town, coming at length to a familiar field where they had often played baseball. A number of youngsters were on the ground now, tossing and batting a discolored baseball, and the sight of them had caused the sandy haired, slightly freckled Don to express his wish. The two boys walked across the field toward the boys and Don said: “Wonder how much further I can hit it now than I could when I played here as a kid?” “Hard to tell,” returned Jim. “But we certainly got quite a bit of practise this spring at Woodcrest.”