Gordon took his position off first base, thumped fist into glove, and called cheerfully across to Tom Haley:

“First man, Tom! Let’s have him!”

But Gordon wasn’t nearly as cool and collected as he tried to seem. He was conscious of the crowd, and especially of the throng that stretched four and five deep along the base line but a half dozen yards away. The noise, too, was disconcerting. He didn’t mind the bellowing of Jim House back of first, nor the answering shrieks of Pink Northrop behind third; but the steady hum and stir of the crowd gave him what was very much like stage fright. He almost hoped that the first hit would not come into his territory, for he was virtually sure that he would misplay it. But Gordon wasn’t the only one suffering from nervous embarrassment. Tom was as wild as a hawk, and if the batsmen had not been up in the air as well Rutter’s Point might have won the game then and there!

Dick, none too self-possessed himself, in spite of the fact that on the bench he was practically out of the public gaze, saw that in the outfield Way, Jack, and Fudge were each moving restlessly about, and he mentally hoped that there would be no long flies for a few minutes! The only one of the home team who seemed absolutely self-possessed and unconcerned was Lanny. Lanny, behind his mask and protector, gave his signals calmly, and called to Tom coolly and encouragingly, holding his hands over the center of the plate and inviting Tom to “put it right here!” And Tom tried his best to follow signals, and failed lamentably.

Caspar Billings went to base on balls, and Gordon took the bag. Tom tried one throw across, and Gordon, to his relief, caught the ball. While Tom had been in the act of swinging around and stepping out, Gordon had been sure that the ball would get by him. Caspar was playing it safe, however, and after Gordon threw the sphere back to Tom the latter gave his attention to the next batsman, Loring Townsend. Loring, with one strike and two balls against him, reached for a low one and sent it up in the air to Pete Robey. Pete caught it, juggled it, dropped it, and then sped it to second. Caspar, who had stopped halfway down the base line, turned back to the bench.

With one out, Tom settled down a little. Loring Townsend stole on the second delivery and beat out the throw. The Point clamored for a hit, but the best Gil Chase could do was to trickle a slow bunt to Tom, who threw out the runner at first.

“Two gone!” called Gordon. “Let him hit, Tom!”

But Tom did the hitting himself, bumping Jim House on the elbow with his first ball. Jim trotted to first, and Leary came to bat. Leary ought to have been easy, but he landed on the very first offering and sent a fly into short left field. Way started with the ball and got it after a hard run, and the inning was over.

“We got out of that mighty luckily,” muttered Gordon, as he took his seat beside Dick. “I guess we’ve all got nerves.”

“Well, so have the others,” replied Dick. “Try to get rid of yours first, Gordie.”

Harry Bryan waited and got his base. Will Scott, instructed to bunt and sacrifice, fouled two attempts, and finally went out on strikes. Gordon brought the stands to their feet by a bunt along first-base line which started well but eventually rolled into foul territory under the anxious gaze of Mason and Townsend. Then came a swipe that missed the ball by inches, then two balls, and last, with two and two, a straight one that Gordon liked the looks of. He found it, all right, but it dropped into center-fielder’s hands, and, with two down, Bryan was still anchored on first. A minute later he tried a steal, and was caught a yard away.

In the second Tom pitched better, and Northrop and Jensen fanned. Houghton, the Point catcher, got a scratch hit, and reached the first bag but died there when Mason struck out.

Clearfield did no better in her half, Wayland, Tappen, and Lanny White going out in order, and only Jack getting a rap at the ball.

It was not until the fourth inning that things began to happen. Leary started the Point’s half with a sharp tap between Pete and Harry that put him safely on first. Then, with the Point coachers yelling like mad and dancing like a couple of dervishes, Tom passed Pink Northrop. With the three tail-enders coming up there seemed no cause for alarm. But Jensen laid down a nice bunt right in front of the plate, and Lanny, tossing aside his mask, picked it up and hurled it to third. Unfortunately, Will Scott had started in toward the plate, and the ball got to third ahead of him. By the time Way had recovered it, Leary had scored, Northrop was on second, and Jensen on first. The Pointers went wild with delight, and the blue-and-yellow flags waved in the grandstand. Houghton, aching for a hit, was over-anxious, and fell a victim to the wiles of Lanny and Tom, and there was one out. Pitcher Mason was no more of a batsman than the average twirler, and yet he managed to make it two and three before he finally put an end to the suspense and the inning by hitting to Harry Bryan, who tagged Jensen as he went past and then threw to Gordon, completing the double.

For the next two innings it looked very much as though that one run would be enough to win the game, for Mason settled down and pitched air-tight ball and added four more strike-outs to his credit. Tom Haley was less spectacular, and yet got by without yielding a hit. He passed two batters and in the sixth Jensen got as far as third when Pete Robey fumbled Houghton’s liner. But there were no runs scored, and at the beginning of the seventh the score still stood 1 to 0 in the visitors’ favor, and Clearfield already tasted defeat. But the audience shouted that here was the “lucky seventh,” and those fortunate to have seats stood up and stretched cramped limbs, and everyone shouted.

In the first half of the seventh the clouds began to gather again over Clearfield’s head. Caspar Billings, first man up, beat out a weak hit and took second when Townsend sacrificed, Scott to Merrick. A moment later he reached third when Chase flied out to right field. Then House provided a half dozen attacks of heart disease when, with three balls and two strikes on him, he knocked fouls to nearly every point of the compass in his endeavor to secure a safe hit and score Caspar. But in the end Tom tricked him into a high fly that settled comfortably into Pete Robey’s glove, and again the sky cleared.

“If those boys don’t win a run this time,” said Mr. Brent, almost crossly, “I’ll be sorry I gave them the field.”

“You mean, dad, you’ll be sorry I gave them the field,” corrected Morris, with a grin. Mr. Brent grunted.

“Why don’t they bat the ball?” he demanded. “Every time one of them gets on a base, the others leave him there. What they ought to do is to take a good bang at it and send it out there beyond those fellows.”

“That’s what they’re trying to do, papa,” replied Louise, “but the Point pitcher won’t let them. He’s a wonderful pitcher, isn’t he, Morris?”

“Pretty fair. He’ll get his before the game’s over, though. See if he doesn’t.”

“Get his what?” asked his father curiously.

“Get what’s coming to him,” laughed Morris. “I mean the Clearfield chaps will bat him. He can’t keep this pace up much longer. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got after him this inning.”

“Oh, I wish we might!” sighed Louise. “I wish they’d just—just slam him!”

“My dear!” murmured Mrs. Brent. “That doesn’t sound very nice.”

“It’s all right, mama; it’s just baseball talk.”

“Even so, dear, I’m not certain,” replied her mother, “that——”

But Louise didn’t hear the rest, for she was waving her purple pennant wildly and shrieking in a manner that Mrs. Brent must have disapproved of thoroughly. But she had a good excuse. Even Mr. Jonathan Brent was tapping his cane and breathing hard, while Morris was frankly on his feet, yelling at the top of his lungs.

Jack, the first Clearfield batsman, had landed on the second ball pitched, and now it was rolling along the grass between right fielder and center, and Jack was traveling fast for second base. He drew up there, breathless but happy. From the stands and from the crowds along the edges of the diamond came shouts and cheers. At last, Clearfield was to tie the score!

And yet even with a runner on second and only a hit necessary to bring in a tally, it began to look as if once more the hopes of Clearfield’s supporters were doomed. Lanny, determined and cool, after waiting until he had three balls to his credit and no strikes, tried to drop out of the way of a close one, only to have it hit his bat and roll fair! Mason fielded it to first, and there was one out. The incessant shouting from the spectators died away and Gordon, coaching at first, swung on his heel and kicked viciously at a pebble to relieve his feelings. Then, with Pete Robey up, there came an exchange of signals, and Jack started for third as the ball left Mason’s hand for the second time. It was an unexpected play, and it succeeded. Pete swung and missed and Houghton side-stepped and hurled to third. But Jack, who was a fast youth on his feet, was diving head-first for the bag when the ball arrived, and Mr. Vokes, trotting past, spread his hands. Clearfield applauded wildly.

With a man on third, Rutter’s Point considered discretion the better part of valor, and Mason pitched out three times to Pete and Pete walked to first, while the home team’s supporters jeered and shouted disparaging remarks to Mason. A minute later Pete went to second unchallenged. Tom Haley was up, and Houghton had argued that Tom could be easily disposed of. And it seemed that he could. Tom made desperate swings at the first two deliveries, and you could have heard the sighs of despair that came from the anxious watchers on the seats. Then, heeding the coachers’ voices at last, Tom got his eye on the ball and watched idly while Mason sped two wide ones past him. Then he tried again and a foul resulted, Houghton getting his hands on it at the edge of the stand but dropping it. A third ball narrowly escaped being a strike, and Gordon cried: “That’s waiting, Tom! Let him walk you; he’ll do it in a minute!”

And he would have, for the next delivery was inches wide of the outer corner of the plate, but Tom reached out eagerly, got that ball on the tip of his bat and sent it arching up in a low fly that fell three feet inside the first-base foul line and just out of the reach of the three fielders who raced after it! In trotted Jack, scoring the tying run, and in sped Pete Robey, close on his heels, while Clearfield went mad with delight and the purple pennants waved on high. Pete beat the throw to the plate by inches, but Tom, trying to reach second on the throw-in, was less fortunate and fell victim to a fine heave from Houghton to Leary.

Dick motioned Fudge to him. “We want another run, Fudge,” he said softly. “Mason will be up in the air now. Make him think you’re anxious to hit. Move up in the box and swing your bat; try to look nervous——”

“I don’t have t-t-t-to try,” muttered Fudge.

“Never mind. Make him think you’ll offer at anything, but don’t swing but once. Pick out a wide one and swing at it, Fudge, but be careful not to hit it. If you work it right, he will pass you sure as shooting! Now, go ahead.”

Harold Townsend, so excited that he hadn’t scored a thing since Jack’s two-bagger, looked at Dick in open admiration. “I guess that’s what they call ‘inside baseball,’ isn’t it, Dick?”

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “It’s what I’d call horse-sense. I hope it works, anyhow!”

With two out and the bases empty the scoring was apparently over, and the Pointers were doubtless already occupying their thoughts with the task before them of overcoming that one-run lead when they at last returned to their positions.

“Last man, Mel!” called Billy Houghton. “Let’s have him!” Then Billy signaled for a straight one. But Mason, as Dick had predicted, was a bit flustered. The straight one came over too low and was a ball. He tried it again, and another ball resulted. Houghton returned the sphere with a slow and cautioning toss, and then spread his fingers for a curve. The curve came, went wide, and Fudge, as nervous as a wet hen, made a mighty swing at it, missing it by six inches and winning a laugh from the spectators. Then he walked to the pitcher’s end of the box and flourished his bat, and seemed to be daring Mason to put one where he could get it. Houghton signaled for a curve once more, for he figured that Fudge was in a condition to offer at anything that came. And Mason, winding his fingers none too carefully about the ball, let drive with it, and was properly surprised when Fudge made no offer!

Then Houghton woke up. The score was three balls and one strike. He signaled for one over the plate, and it came. “Strike!” called Mr. Cochran. On the bench Dick watched anxiously. If Fudge could get his base, he reasoned, Harry Bryan would be up, and, in the present disgruntled state of mind of the Point players, errors were likely to result. On the mound Mason was shaking his head at Houghton’s instructions. He had no doubt that he could put the third strike over, but he preferred to make the batter fan. Houghton signaled again, Mason wound up, and the ball traveled forward. It had a jump on it, if ever a ball did, and that jump was Mason’s undoing. Fudge never moved as the ball passed him, only turned inquiringly toward the umpire. The latter nodded. “Take your base,” he said.

Billy Houghton ejaculated an amazed “What?” and Mason disgustedly kicked up the dust, but Fudge, grinning toward the bench as he passed, trotted to first. Rutter’s Point suddenly awakened to the fact that perhaps the trouble was not yet over, after all!

Nor was it. Harry Bryan found something to his liking, and banged it head-high across the diamond toward Billings. Caspar knocked it down, fumbled it, and then threw too late to Townsend. Harry was safe on first and Fudge on second. Clearfield yelled like wild Indians, and the crowd swayed and threatened to push on to the field. Then began a panicky five minutes.

Fudge danced around at second and Bryan at first. The coachers shouted and leaped, and the crowd kept up an incessant thumping of feet and a steady roar of voices. Up in the main stand, Mr. Jonathan Brent was hugging his cane and leaning forward from the very edge of his seat. Louise had her purple pennant twisted into a hard knot, and Morris was talking hoarsely to himself or whoever might be listening. “Take a good lead, Shaw!” he directed. “Look out, Bryan! He almost got you! Here we go, fellows! Here we go!” Of course, neither Fudge nor Harry heard him, but Morris never thought about that. Morris was running that game for himself just then.

Dick whispered a few words to Jack Tappen, and Jack sped to first and whispered a few words to Gordon. And Gordon turned his head inquiringly toward the bench, caught Dick’s emphatic nod, and renewed his shouting.

“What did you tell him, Dick?” asked Harold, in a low voice.

Dick smiled. “You wait and see, Harold,” he said.

Will Scott was up now, with one ball to his credit. Mason had made three attempts to catch Bryan napping at first, and now he directed his attention to the batsman again. A waister went for a strike, a wide one followed and scored the second ball, and then Mason wound up once more and shot his arm out. And as he did so Fudge leaped away toward third, Bryan sped for second, and a cry of “There he goes!” went up from the visitors’ bench. Will Scott glued his eye to that ball, swung and missed it. Houghton made a desperate attempt to cut off the runner at third, but failed, and bedlam broke loose. Mr. Potter knocked the silver trophy off its base in his excitement, and only caught it at the edge of the “press-stand” table. Harold kicked his legs in air and tossed his score-book up. Mr. Anthony Brent nearly broke his walking-stick. Morris challenged everyone within hearing to deny that that was the prettiest double steal that had ever been pulled off. Louise clapped her hands until her palms ached and her white gloves threatened to rip. And some six hundred other folks did whatever it occurred to them to do, and did it just as noisily as they knew how!

Dick Lovering, Manager of the Clearfield Baseball Club, only smiled quietly and made little marks in his score-book.

A minute later Scott was perched on first base, Mason having been totally unable to locate the plate, and Gordon faced the pitcher. Bases full, two out, and the captain at bat! Well, it was a fine situation, no matter what might come of it. The Point infield crept toward the plate. Everyone talked loudly to the pitcher, as much, perhaps, to tranquilize his own nerves as to encourage Mason. Mason, it seemed, needed encouragement. He was palpably unstrung, and the first ball he pitched proved it, for it was as wild as a shooting-star, and if Billy Houghton had not leaped sidewise and sprawled on his elbow it would have been by him and let in a run. But Billy stopped it, and Fudge scuttled back to safety at third.

Mason worked a slow ball over for a strike on the next attempt, and that seemed to settle him somewhat. Gordon let one go by and found he had judged it correctly. Then a foul back of first base made the standing two and two. The noise had diminished, and now an almost breathless silence enveloped the field. Only the voices of the coachers were to be heard.

“Oh, come on, Fudge! Take a lead! That’s better! Hold it! On your toes, everyone! Look out for a passed ball now! Here’s where we score a few!”

“Pick out a good one, Cap! Make him pitch to you! Here it is! Here it is!”

But Gordon refused to offer at it, and, “Ball!” announced the umpire.

“It’s got to be good, now, Gordie!” yelled Jack. “Lean on it! Lean on it! Make it a homer, Cap!”

Mason wound, unwound, sped the ball toward the plate, bat and ball met and a sudden swelling pÆan of joy went up as the spectators leaped to their feet and craned their necks. But Gordon, speeding down the first-base line, and the other runners, spurning the dust between bags, slowed up and turned disappointedly back. The hit had gone foul by several yards. A brand-new ball was thrown to the pitcher, and Gordon picked up his bat again, waited until the runners had regained their bases, and then once more faced Mason.

That new white ball looked good to him! What he feared most now was that Mason would pitch a bad one and that he would have to take his base on balls. To be sure, that would force in another run, but Gordon wanted more than that. Something told him that if Mason put one over he could hit it! Perhaps it would have been well if Mason had sacrificed a run and passed the Clearfield captain, but Mason couldn’t be expected to know what was to happen. He wanted to strike the batsman out and end a deplorable inning, and Billy Houghton wanted the same thing. And so Billy spread his hands wide and Mason was just a bit more careful than usual and the ball sped forward fast and straight. And Gordon felt his heart jump as he saw what was coming. Every muscle tightened, his bat swung sharply, there was a crack that was easily heard outside the field where an eager army of small boys had their eyes glued to all available cracks and knot-holes, and Gordon was racing for first!

Over Leary’s upstretched glove traveled the ball into the outfield. Jim House made a desperate effort to get it on the bound, missed it, whirled and scuttled back toward the fence. It was Pink Northrop, right fielder, who finally recovered it and threw it frantically in to second baseman. But by that time three joyous youths had crossed the plate and Gordon was sliding, in a cloud of dust, to third. And he might have kept his feet, at that, for poor Caspar, seeing the game slipping away, muffed the throw. Gordon had come through with a clean three-bagger! The score stood five to one! The “lucky seventh” had proved itself!

“The Lucky Seventh had proved itself”