Lucky Seven Read Online Free PDF Page B

contestant in
     a race. George watched it; a nerve began to tingle at the base of his back. The bee banked sharply to the left, and headed
     directly for George’s head.
    “No!” shouted George, and reared backward hastily.
    There was nothing at his back to catch him and he plunged to the ground. He put out his hands to cushion his fall and made
     a three-point landing. He groaned as pain shot through his tall, lean frame. George sat there momentarily, watching the bumblebee
     buzzing around the apples. In a little while, as if not satsified with what it found, the bee streaked away, a bolt of yellow,
     at a speed that looked as if it could well break the sonic barrier.
    George snarled as he rose to his feet. He brushed off his pants and felt his right wrist. He had removed the tape from his
     pitching arm after the season had ended, and now he looked at it with a dismal sensation coming over him. He turned his wrist
     this way and that and felt no pain at all.
    He stared at it with foreboding. He hurried home, got his glove, and called on Walt.
    “What gives, man?” said Walt, staring. “The season’s been over a long time.”
    “I want to throw one pitch,” George told Walt, breathlessly. “Just one is all I’ll need.”
    Walt looked at him as if George had cracked up, but without further argument he got his mitt and took his stance about sixty
     feet away from George. He only had his regular-size mitt at home during the summer, and a worried frown marked his face.
    George looked at the target Walt gave him, reared back, and threw. The ball streaked straight as an arrow—all the way to Walt’s
     mitt. It didn’t curve up, down, or sideways. It didn’t spiral. It didn’t do anything. It just went straight.
    “Just what I thought,” murmured George sadly. “It’s all over, Walt.”
    “It didn’t curve!” yelled Walt, horrified. “It’s the first one that didn’t curve!”
    “I know,” said George, looking at his wrist.
    “Throw me another!” cried Walt. “You can’t lose that curve just like that!”
    “But I have,” murmured George. “It’s gone!”
    He proved it when he threw again—a perfect straight ball so wide of Walt’s target Walt almost missed catching it.
    So ended George Maxwell Jones’ pitching days.
    But to this day his name is remembered and is inscribed on a tall, golden trophy displayed in the hall of Jefferson High:
    “In honor of our hero, George Maxwell Jones, pitcher of eleven straight victories for Jefferson High School.”
    To this day George can never see a bee without smiling slightly and shaking his head. Some of his friends know his story,
     but others wonder why he acts that way.

No Spot for Jerry

     
    JERRY BELL braced himself and looked directly into the blue eyes of the guard opposite him.
    “One! Two! Hip!” Quarterback Dave Wheeler’s voice snapped like a whip.
    At the cry, “Hip!” the lines lunged at each other. Jerry pushed forward and felt himself thrust aside. The next instant he
     was sprawled on the ground, his brown and white helmet cocked slightly on his head.
    All around him was a tangle of brown and green uniforms. The pileup was behind him. He got to his feet as quickly as he could.
    The referee’s whistle pierced the air, and the pile unscrambled. At the bottom was MikeTowns, fullback for the Browns. His helmet was pushed over his eyes. Dirt smeared his cheeks.
    “Huddle,” snapped Dave Wheeler.
    In the huddle Mike looked dagger-eyed at Jerry. “That guard busted right through you,” he said. “That’s the second time. Can’t
     you stop him?”
    Jerry blushed. “I tried,” he said timidly.
    “Okay,” said Dave. “We’d better try a pass. Twelve flair.”
    Twelve flair meant the pass would be either to right end Fred Jones or left end Bert Buck.
    The huddle broke. The teams lined up with the Browns in T formation. The Indians formed a five, four, two defense. The ball
     was on the Browns’ thirty-eight-yard line. It was