Lucky Seven Read Online Free PDF

it to Walt, and stuffed the other ball back into his pocket.
    “Play ball!” he ordered.
    Walt tossed the ball to George. George caught it and stepped into the pitcher’s box. He waited till the batter got ready,
     then reared back and aimed the throw for Walt’s huge mitt.
    The ball left his hand quite naturally, sped in a straight line, then went into its spiral. Thebatter gawked. His jaw sagged open and he made a futile and late attempt at a swing.
    “You’re out!” bellowed the umpire.
    One hundred and sixty fans cheered and whistled. The second batter was no better than the first, nor the third better than
     the second. Inning after inning, George Maxwell Jones threw the ball the only way he knew how and let it take its unnatural
     course.
    This is how the game continued until twenty-seven Barton High men were out. George had walked four, thrown four wild pitches,
     and six batters had managed to tick the ball for a foul. But Barton High didn’t score, and Jefferson won the game, 3 to o,
     breaking its streak of eleven losses.
    George was hoisted on stocky shoulders and carried like a hero to the school locker room. Everyone began shaking his hand—his
     left one—so that his right would be well enough to go again in the next game. Coach Wilson actually had a teary glimmer in
     his
eyes
as he praised his newly-discovered hurler.
    Davidson High was the next to falter underGeorge’s unorthodox curve. Three times as many spectators as before witnessed the game. There was even a photographer who
     took pictures of George in various positions on the mound. George, unaccustomed to such accolades, blushed most of the time.
    “What do you call that pitch?” a reporter asked as he cornered George before the hero could get off the playing field.
    “Don’t call it anything,” replied George innocently.
    “You don’t have a name for it?”
    “No,” said George. “No name. I just throw it, that’s all.”
    “Did anybody teach it to you? A big leaguer? Or a friend who knows how to pitch?”
    “No,” repeated George. “I just throw it, that’s all.”
    “Amazing!” murmured the reporter. “Kid, some big league team will snatch you up quicker than you can say George—by the way,
     what’s your full name?”
     

     
    “George Maxwell Jones.”
    “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”
    “Sure is,” said George.
    Washington High fell next, and then Clem-son and St. James went down before George’s corkscrew pitch. On two occasions Steve
     Buckner had to relieve George on the mound. Both times George was hit by a pitched ball—once on his foot, and once on his
     left elbow. In each case the incidents happened during the last two innings when Jefferson was ahead. Coach Wilson wanted
     to protect his star hurler from possible serious injuries, so he pulled him. An ordinary baseball player could have dodged
     the pitches easily, but, of course, George Maxwell Jones was no ordinary base-ball player.
    Big league scouts came to witness his fantastic performance, and there wasn’t one who wouldn’t have signed him on the spot—if
     it had been legal to sign up high school players. George could hardly wait till he graduated. Walt had told him that some
     bonus babiessigned for a hundred thousand dollars! Just imagine that! A hundred thousand dollars!
    The season ended with Jefferson High copping the pennant and the championship. George Maxwell Jones was named the most valuable
     player of the year. If that wasn’t enough, he was also selected as an all-state player.
    During summer vacation George liked to relax on his father’s farm. The apple trees there provided plenty of good places to
     sit and dream of a big league future.
    George was sitting in one of these trees, picking off the small green but delicious apples, when a large bumblebee, yellow,
     with black stripes on its back approached.
    It droned along sleepily, but suddenly it picked up speed and dodged around a score of apples as if it were a