Mr. Williams motioned the infielders in and Steve’s hopes dropped. Evidently the pitcher was looking for an attempt at a bunt. At all events, Steve’s chance of “getting away with it,” as he mentally phrased it, seemed pretty slim. He wished he could manage to lay against the ball just hard enough to carry it out of the diamond, since, with the infielders all inside the base lines, a short, low fly would be the safest sort of a hit. But it was soon evident that Mr. Williams had no idea of letting him so much as touch that ball! The Mount Placid pitcher was never more deliberate or careful. The first offering went as a ball and the second looked low, but was called a strike by Mr. York. Mr. Gifford and Sam were shouting encouragingly. “Hit it out, Steve!” “Choose your alley!” “All the way ’round this time, Steve!” Mr. Williams studied the catcher’s signal very attentively, hesitated, shook his head, looked again, nodded, wound up, and pitched. The ball broke to the right and Steve stepped warily back only to realise the next instant that the sphere had crossed the inner corner of the plate and to hear the umpire fatefully announce, “Strike—two!”

Steve glared wrathfully at the pitcher as that gentleman again settled the ball between his fingers, and tried to guess what the next one was to be. With two strikes against him, it was probable that Mr. Williams would waste one, but Steve wasn’t certain and so, when the dirty-white sphere again shot toward him, he glued his eyes to it and in the scant moment of time that elapsed tried his hardest to judge it. Then he brought his bat around, there was a slight tingle in his hands and he was sprinting toward first. But luck was still against him, for the discouraging cry of “Foul!” caught him halfway along the path, and he turned back, picked up his bat, and again faced the pitcher. Steve was hopeless now, and a little desperate. The absurd notion of striking at the next delivery, no matter what it might be, and so ending the suspense, came to him, and he dallied with it while Mr. Williams, slowly and deliberately, wound-up, stepped forward, and shot the ball once more toward the plate. And then Steve found himself suddenly undecided, quite lost sight of the ball for an instant, found it again just as it came close, brought his bat around half-heartedly in a despairing effort which he was perfectly certain was a hopeless one, and then felt the shock of bat and ball, heard the sudden shriek that went up from behind him and, digging his toes into the dust, put his head down and raced!

That hit was the joke of the game. The ball would have crossed the outer corner of the plate at about a level with the top of Steve’s shoes had he allowed it to. Hanford had dropped to his knees to get it, and whether Hanford or Steve was the more surprised is hard to say. The latter’s ridiculous swing had, by some stroke of luck, caught the ball on the tip of the bat. There had been no force in the swing, Steve had even failed to grasp the stick firmly, but the result could have been no more satisfactory had he studied and worked for it, for that ball arose from almost in the dust and described a pretty arch over the pitcher’s head and descended fifteen feet behind the base line, and a little to the right of second. Second baseman tried for it desperately, and first baseman went to his assistance, but the hit was never in danger of being caught. Had the second baseman been playing his usual position he would only have had to step back a couple of yards and put his hand up to have caught it, but with that player well inside the diamond the ball was quite safe. And so was Steve, one toe poised on first base and a look of deep surprise on his countenance. Mr. Gifford was slapping him on the back and saying, for the sole benefit of the enemy: “No one out, Steve! Play it safe and look out for a double!”

At the plate Ed Thursby faced the pitcher and gave an excellent imitation of a man wanting to bunt. Steve took a six-foot lead. Mr. Williams turned. Steve slid back to base. The ball slapped into first baseman’s mitt. The Wigwam scoffed loudly. Once more the pitcher tried, but Steve was like a cat for quickness. Mr. Williams turned his attention then to the batter and Steve edged further away and watched the wind-up and reckoned his chance. Ed Thursby showed how eager he was to hit by stepping almost on top of the plate to get that delivery, and, apparently, only failing to swing because it was palpably a pitch-out. Hanford, getting the ball, recovered quickly and looked more than surprised when he saw that Steve had made no attempt to steal! One ball to Ed’s credit then. Steve again took his lead and Mr. Williams studied him a moment in deep silence ere he turned back, took a short wind up and——

“There he goes!” shouted the first baseman.

Ed never even so much as offered at that ball, but you may be sure he didn’t step out of the way! Hanford side-stepped, shot his arm back and then forward and off sailed the ball to second base. It reached there in a cloud of dust, and shortstop, covering base, made a brilliant catch and swung downward. But Steve had one foot hooked into the bag and was smiling sweetly as Mr. York, trotting by, spread his hands wide, palms downward. The Wigwam cheered and capered. Then Steve was up again, patting dust from his grey trousers and edging along the path toward third. Twice shortstop circled behind him to base, but Mr. Williams refused to throw. There was not in his estimation any danger of the runner stealing third with no one out. Besides, he was already in difficulty with the batsman, for his second delivery had been far too high and the score was two balls and no strikes. Ed Thursby suddenly recovered from his fierce desire to hit. He stood idle while Mr. Williams put a fast ball over for a strike and while he tried to do it again and missed it by an inch or two. One-and-two, then, and Mr. Williams showing some discomfort, and the rival coachers making life hideous with their shouts. But the Mount Placid pitcher took plenty of time; cast a look toward Steve, dancing challengingly about on the base path, sent him hurrying back to second with a none too fast throw to the second baseman, got the ball back, fixed it between his fingers, and finally sent it in.

“Strike—two!” said Mr. York.

Ed only smiled. There was still another chance and this time the offering must be good. His glance shot across to Steve while the ball was returned. Whatever he did, he reflected, he must not put the ball into the infield where it could be played to third, for he knew perfectly well that Steve meant to steal on the next delivery. And then the ball was coming and he set his body for it. And as it came bedlam was let loose!

“Third! Third! There he goes!” shrieked Mount Placid. For Steve was off with the wind-up, his legs fairly twinkling along the path. Around came Ed’s bat, the ball thumped into Hanford’s glove and, an instant later, flew through the air to third. But once more Steve had stolen cleanly, ending his sprint with a ten-foot fallaway slide! And again The Wigwam jubilated riotously! Ed Thursby, trailing his bat back to the pile, reflected that even if he had been ingloriously struck out the day was not yet lost.

Simpson had his instructions to bunt, if he could, along the first-base line. Mr. Williams again signalled the infield to close in toward the plate, for they must play for the man on third no matter what became of the batter. Simpson tried hard to carry out instructions, missed one strike, fouled off a second and, finally, with two strikes and two balls on him, actually bumped the sphere across the diamond in a very good imitation of a hit. But it was an imitation only and he would have been an easy out had not Benson, the opposing shortstop, delayed too long to throw to first. Benson was so sure that the runner on third was putting out for home that it took him several valuable moments to convince himself that that player was actually only ten feet from base. By that time Simpson, who could run if he couldn’t bat much, was almost at the bag, and Benson’s desperate peg failed to get him.

Mount Placid showed signs of nervousness now. Mr. Gifford went to bat. On the first pitch Simpson scuttled to second. Hanford threw quickly to the box, but Steve was not to be fooled by so ancient a trick and trotted back to third. There was no necessity for taking risks, anyway, for there was but one down and any sort of a hit or a long sacrifice fly would score him. But five minutes later the outlook was darker, for Mr. Gifford, in spite of all his efforts, only managed at last to hit straight at the box. Mr. Williams knocked the ball down, held Steve at third, and tossed out the runner. The Wigwam, almost pale with excitement, groaned and cheered together. The rivals across the diamond found cause for rejoicing and shouted encouragingly.

Joe Groom picked out a bat and faced the pitcher, scowling intently. At second Simpson took a long lead, but watched the ball closely. On third Steve had grown suddenly shy and hugged the bag until the ball was in the air. But the coachers kept up their din and the infield still played short-field and Mr. Williams looked a little bit anxious. The first offer was a straight ball right across the plate and Joe Groom frowned. The next was wide and evened the score. Then a curve fooled Joe completely and his vicious swing at it passed harmlessly by.

“Two-and-one!” called Hanford hoarsely. “Let’s have him now!”

Mr. Williams smiled grimly, began his wind-up and—faltered! For there, running like a grey-legged rabbit along the path, sped Steve! Mr. Williams recovered quickly, stepped forward and shot the ball to Hanford. Some two hundred voices shrieked together. Joe Groom held his place grimly, his eyes fixed on the ball, his bat poised. But there was no need of offering, for that one instant of hesitation had done the business. The ball, sent away as an out-curve, broke wildly, and although Hanford, dropping to his knees, threw himself in the way of it, it trickled past, and Steve, sliding to the plate in a maelstrom of dust, had scored!

Joe and half a dozen others lifted him to his feet. Above the outburst of joy from the third-base side of the diamond could be heard Mr. Gifford’s reiterated ejaculation of “You old thief! You old thief!” Off to the bench they hustled him, shaking his hand, thumping his back. Down at first base Ed Thursby was trying hard to stand on his head and wave his legs. Behind third Sam was absolutely grinning!

And then, order restored again, Joe Groom stood idly by and watched Mr. Williams put two balls past, and then walked to first.

“Let’s have a couple more!” shouted Thursby. “We’ve got ’em going, fellows! Let’s——”

But the rest was drowned in the cheer that Dick Barry was leading. But, although Ed took second unchallenged on a passed ball, Tom Crossbush failed to deliver the required hit, popping a miserable little foul to Hanford, and the side was out.

Five to four was the score now, and “Hold ’em!” pleaded The Wigwam supporters. “Hold ’em!”

Walters, Connell, and Phillips were up for Mount Placid in that last of the ninth, and Mr. Gifford was a victim to dire forebodings as he stepped into the pitcher’s box. Nothing he possessed, he felt sure, would deceive the two councillors, and so it was up to the fielders to hold the game safe. Walters was far too anxious and nervous and put himself to the bad at once by fouling the first two deliveries. Then, growing cautious, he misjudged the next ball and stepped aside.

“One gone!” called Sam. “Here’s the next victim, Andy!”

But Mr. Connell was not so easy. He lighted on Mr. Gifford’s second offering and poked it well into left for two bases, to the great joy of Mount Placid. A hit now would tie the game again. Sam called for high ones and Mr. Gifford tried his best to send them in that way. But he didn’t always succeed, and with one strike and two balls he unfortunately gave Mr. Phillips just what that gentleman fancied. There was a sharp crack and off into short right sped the ball. On second Mr. Connell poised himself to start the instant the ball landed. And start he did, and run he did! Down came the ball into Simpson’s glove after that youth had run halfway to the infield, and Simpson, putting on brakes, made the throw that saved the day. Sam, astride the plate, hands outstretched, waited anxiously. Along the path from third raced the ambitious Mr. Connell. The air was filled with unintelligible cries and noises. Then the ball struck the sod well in front of the plate, bounded straight and thudded into Sam’s hands, and Sam, dropping to his left knee, thrust it against Mr. Connell’s oncoming foot, toppled over on the runner, rolled over and aside and held a hand aloft, the ball still firmly clasped!

And above the din and through the red dust-cloud sounded Mr. York’s voice, “He’s out!”