Sam was surprised the next afternoon when he reached the high school athletic field to find that the game with Lynton had drawn together quite an audience. Perhaps the fact that the summer weather still held, with no hint as yet of autumn, accounted for the baseball enthusiasm. Usually by the middle of September the fellows were far too engrossed with football to heed the rival game. To-day the school had turned out in force, and there was a fair sprinkling of girls in the stand. Sam met many acquaintances he had not seen since his return and his progress through the gate and around to the dressing-room was slow. Frank Warner, last year’s captain of the high school team, for whom Sam had never entertained a very great liking, was quite affable. Frank, as he confided with studied carelessness, was off to college the middle of next week. Sam said he hoped he’d like it.

“Oh, I dare say I’ll like it well enough,” replied the other. “It’s not a bad place, I guess. I’m going to Warner, you know. They turn out some pretty decent teams there. I’m going to have a try for freshman football. I suppose college isn’t included in your scheme, Sam.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the other, trying not to show his resentment of Frank’s patronising tone. “I rather expect to go to Warner myself next fall. May see you there, Frank. Good luck.”

He turned away with a careless nod and sought the dressing-room. And as he went the determination to enter Warner College next year, by hook or crook, took possession of him. Until that moment he had not viewed the idea seriously, in spite of Mr. York’s enthusiasm and his own desire, but now he told himself that somehow he would carry it out, if only, he added grimly, to show Frank Warner that he didn’t own the college, even if it did have the same name! And then he was in the dressing-room and a shout of welcome arose, and he had to forget his great resolve and return the greetings of the dozen or so fellows present.

There was Tommy Hughes and “Buster” Healey and young Peddie and Sid Morris and Tom and Pete Farrar and Bert Meyers and six or seven more, many of them just back from summer vacations and pleading with Tom to be allowed to join the Blues for the occasion. Tom good-naturedly accepted them all as substitutes and promised to use them as he could, and consequently, when the team gave up the field to Lynton, some twenty minutes later, the home team’s bench was much too small to accommodate all the players and substitutes. Mr. Talbot, the high school coach, appeared accompanied by Mr. George, the latter a former league pitcher, who had helped with the team the preceding spring. It was Mr. Talbot who drew Tom’s attention to a big, wide-shouldered youth, who was lazily pitching the ball to a substitute catcher at the far side of the diamond.

“You don’t mean they’re going to pitch that fellow, do you?” asked the coach.

Tom looked and shook his head. “I never saw him before,” he said. “Wonder where they got him. They wanted us to agree to play to-day with the same line-up we had before, but I refused because I wanted Sam to catch for us. I guess they thought they’d strengthen themselves some, too. That fellow must be twenty-three or four.”

“All of that, I guess. And from the easy way in which he handles that ball I’d say he’d done it before,” added Mr. Talbot drily. “Probably a college man they’ve picked up.”

“I don’t see,” said Tommy Hughes, who had joined them, “why two can’t play at that game, sir. You might play for us, Mr. Talbot.”

“I guess not. Teams don’t usually play their coaches, Hughes.”

“But you’re not our coach, sir. This isn’t the high school team, it’s the Blues.”

Mr. Talbot laughed. “Really? But I see quite a few familiar faces! You might get Mr. George to play, though.”

“He’s going to umpire,” said Tom. “I just asked him. There’s Mr. Hall coming in, though. He used to pitch. We might ask him.”

“John Hall? What’s he doing here?” Mr. Talbot asked.

“He’s a friend of Sam’s and we asked him to come to the game. You know him, don’t you, Mr. Talbot?”

“I’ve met him,” replied the coach briefly. Then he smiled. “The fact is, Tom, we’re opposing counsel in a case that’s been running along since last winter, and we’ve had to hammer each other pretty hard in court. But I don’t know that need keep us from fraternising at a ball game. You’d better go over and rescue him. He’s looking for a place to sit down, and the bench is full.”

But Sam had seen the newcomer and yielded his seat to him when Tom arrived. Mr. Hall, protesting, sat down and then listened to Tom’s message. “I pitch?” he said finally. “Why, Pollock, I haven’t had a baseball in my hand for years! I’d like to oblige you, but I’d make a mess of it. You’ll do it twice as well as I could.”

“If Tom gets into trouble,” suggested Sam, “you might try it, Mr. Hall. Would you?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so, if I’m really needed. But give me a chance to limber up, fellows. My arm’s pretty stiff, I guess. Swinging a golf club isn’t quite the same as pitching a baseball. How does it come, though, that you’re letting them use that man? Looks to me like a professional, Pollock.”

“Well, sir, we haven’t any sort of an agreement as to who’s to play. It doesn’t seem quite fair to call on chaps as old as he is, but as they’ve done it we thought we could.”

“I’d say you had every right to, but if I were you I’d see if I couldn’t pull through with my regular players. Then if you do win you’ll have something to be proud of. How do you, Mr. Talbot? Glad to see you again.” Mr. Hall arose and the two lawyers shook hands in a friendly way. “For once, I take it, we’re both on the same side!”

“That’s so,” Mr. Talbot replied, with a smile. “We’ll bury our hatchets for this afternoon. Are you going to help these chaps out, Mr. Hall?”

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll need my help. I was just saying to them that they ought to see what they could do without—er—legal assistance. Take my advice, Pollock, and keep away from lawyers as long as you can. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr. Talbot?”

“Good advice, but unprofitable to us,” was the reply. “The audience is getting impatient, Tom. Are you ready?”

From the stand came cries of “Play ball!” and Mr. George, struggling to fit to a rather large head a mask that was several sizes too small for him, called, “Batter up!” The Amesville Blues trotted to their places and Lynton presented her first man.

Mr. Talbot and Mr. Hall, left with the substitutes, settled down to watch the game. Mr. Hall sighed comfortably. “This is what I like,” he said.

Mr. Talbot looked a question.

“Sitting on a bench,” explained the other, “with nothing to do but watch a couple of teams play ball. It beats working all hollow!”

Mr. Talbot laughed. “That’s so, but for my part I’d rather be out there playing, Hall.”

“Y-yes, so would I, except that I’m too rusty now to try it. Golf’s about the only game left to us older chaps.”

“You don’t look so superannuated. Dare say you could puzzle them a bit yet if you tried. One down,” he added as the first Lynton batsman trailed his bat away from the plate.

“Wonder if I could,” mused Mr. Hall. “I’d rather like to try, I guess. You went to college in the East, didn’t you, Talbot?”

“Yes, Pennsylvania. And you?”

“Warner. We never met you chaps.”

“No, I think not. Good work, Healey! That boy can handle them mighty well for a youngster. That’s two down. Tom Pollock hasn’t got his stride yet, or else he isn’t working. Those two chaps make a great team.”

“Pollock and Craig? What sort of a fellow is this Craig boy?”

“Just what you see. Quiet, straightforward, honest as they make them. Not exactly brilliant—Look at that for a drop!—not brilliant exactly, but sensible and brainy. Pollock said Sam was a friend of yours, I thought.”

“He is. I met him yesterday.”

Mr. Talbot smiled. “Not of long standing, then.”

“No, the fact is we have a mutual friend, Craig and I. We’re just getting acquainted. I like him, though, so far.”

“You’ll keep on then, for Sam doesn’t change much. That’s one thing that makes him a mighty good catcher. He’s as steady as a rock. Plays the same game to-day he did yesterday, except that he probably gets a little better all the time. He isn’t the sort who have flashes of fine form one day and then slump the next. That’s the stuff, Tom! Who’s scoring? You, Steve? When does that pitcher of theirs come up? Fifth on the list? I thought so. I guess he’s going to make trouble for us. What’s his name?”

“Smith,” replied Steve Arbuckle.

“Smith! I’ll wager he has another name at home,” said Mr. Talbot. “If he gets too gay I’ll go in there myself, unless you will, Hall.”

“I would if I thought I could do any good. We’ll see how things turn out. There goes the last man. That’s three, isn’t it? Now then, Amesville, show what you can do!”

The Blues didn’t do much of anything. The mysterious Smith was too much for the first three batsmen and they all went out on strikes. The last one, however, nearly got his base by reason of a third strike which got past the catcher. The ball headed him off at the base, though, and the first inning ended with only six men having seen the plate.

“That’s the only thing that may give our boys a look-in,” said Mr. Talbot.

“You mean passed balls?” asked Mr. Hall. “That’s so; that catcher of theirs is finding it pretty hard to hold the pitcher.”

As Steve Arbuckle, last year’s manager of the nine, phrased it, setting a neat “k” in the appropriate space, “Another redskin bit the dust!” Which, interpreted, meant that the first Lynton batter had fallen before Tom’s curves. That brought Smith, the pitcher, up, and the audience on the bench watched curiously. He was a good-looking chap, but, as Mr. Hall insisted, there was something in his appearance that suggested the professional, or, perhaps, semi-professional ball player. It may have been the easy, untroubled, almost listless manner in which he walked to the plate, rubbed his hands on the seams of his trousers, swung his bat once, and then faced Tom Pollock. “For all the world,” muttered Mr. Hall, “as if he was sure of his pay-envelope whether he hits or doesn’t.”

Tom worked a low one over for a strike and Smith merely glanced at the corner of the plate, over which it had passed. A curve went for a ball. A second crossed knee-high but was too close for a strike. Smith stood motionless, save for the incessant working of his jaws as he chewed gum. Sam, kneeling, laid four fingers vertically against his mitten, the signal for a slow ball. He argued that with two balls on the pitcher, Smith would expect a fast one over the plate. Tom stepped forward and pitched. There was a solid, resounding thud and the ball shot across the diamond, passed like a bullet between shortstop and third baseman and, far out in the field, struck the sod and bounded into centre fielder’s glove. The throw to second was too late to get the runner, however, for the redoubtable Mr. Smith slid beautifully and hooked a foot against the bag before the ball got to him. The small party of Lyntonites shouted delightedly and Mr. Hall and Mr. Talbot exchanged glances.

“Looks as if he’d hit a ball before,” said the latter drily.

“Wouldn’t wonder if he’d run bases before, too,” observed Mr. Talbot. “Lucky thing for us they didn’t have men on bases.”

“Very. Watch him take his lead now. The chap’s a regular player, all right. Look at that!”

Tom had wheeled quickly and thrown to shortstop and Smith had cunningly shot around back of the bag and slid out of reach of the descending arm.

“Pollock will never catch him asleep,” said Mr. Talbot.

Tom tried it again a minute later, after he had slipped one across on the next batsman, but the result was the same. Then he gave his attention to the plate and easily disposed of the Lynton third baseman. With two out, the Blues breathed easier, but the trouble was not over for the inning. Smith, who had proved his ability to take a long lead and escape punishment, did what he was expected to and stole third so neatly that, by the time Sam had stepped aside to avoid the batsman, there was no use in making the throw. With two-and-two, Sam called for a low one in the groove, hoping to fool the batter. But that youth managed in some way to connect and the ball went bounding across to shortstop. It would have been a simple matter to get the ball and field it to first in time to retire Lynton, but Gordon Smith “booted” badly and his namesake tallied Lynton’s first run. The half was over a minute later when Sam, signalling for a wide one, threw to second and caught the runner sliding.

Some of the Blues did a little grumbling when they returned to the bench. The general sentiment was to the effect that Smith ought to be protested. Either that or the home team should enlist the services of Mr. Talbot or Mr. Hall. Tom, however, refused to consider the first plan, declaring that if they were going to object to Smith they should have done it before the game started.

“Then why not ask Mr. Talbot to play?” demanded Bert Meyers.

“He doesn’t want to. If we can’t lick them any other way, though, Mr. Hall will go in and pitch for us.”

“We don’t need anyone else to pitch,” grumbled Buster Healey. “We need someone to hit!”

“Try it yourself, Buster,” said Tom. “You’re up next.”

“That’s all right, but that fellow’s a big league pitcher. You can’t fool me! Tom Hughes says he saw him pitch for Cleveland last year.”

“Tommy’s a fibber, I guess. Anyway, don’t give up before you get to the plate, Buster. Try a bunt.”

Buster did try a bunt, and missed. And then he tried to hit it out and missed. And after that he tried waiting—and missed. And, when he was once more seated comfortably on the bench, he growled uncomplimentary remarks about Pitcher Smith! There was no scoring in that half of the second and none in either half of the third. Tom managed to hold the enemy hitless, although the Lynton captain came very near to reaching first on a smash that almost carried third baseman off his feet. The ball and the runner reached the first sack at about the same instant, and Mr. George’s decision might well have been made either way. He ruled the runner out, however, and quickly quelled the mutinous murmurs of the Lynton team. Mr. George, who seemed to be having a very good time of it, conducted himself like a league umpire and there was something in his “That’ll do! Play ball!” that discouraged protest.

The fourth inning opened for Lynton with the second clean hit of the game and the batsman reached first with time to spare. Then a hit-and-run resulted in an out at first and put a man on second. But, although there were moments when things looked desperate for the home team, the inning finally ended without a tally, Smith being coaxed by Tom into hitting a fly to the left fielder, which that youth pulled down. But the Blues fared no better; in fact, not so well, for, although Sam, discarding his new method of short-swinging in favor of slugging, lined out a two-bagger, he never got beyond that station.

The game had resolved itself into a pitchers’ battle, with Tom barely holding his own against his more experienced opponent. Only the sharpest sort of fielding behind him and a really wonderful catch of a foul by Sam kept Lynton’s score down to that one lone tally. The onlookers were getting full value for their money—the Blues, in view of the more than usual amount of interest in the deciding contest, had audaciously charged fifteen cents for admission—and were sitting well forward in their seats most of the time. Even on the bench the suspense was beginning to tell. Mr. Hall had dragged his discolored Panama well over his eyes, folded his arms, and was watching events with keen interest. Mr. Talbot, smiling as he always did smile when he was anxious, made infrequent remarks in low tones to which his neighbor merely nodded.

The fifth passed uneventfully into history, only three men going to bat for the Blues and four for Lynton. Smith mowed down his adversaries mercilessly, seldom pitching more than four balls to each. Tom had to work harder, and in that first of the fifth had a narrow escape from punishment when the Lynton right fielder cracked out what looked to be good for two bases, but resolved itself into a remarkable put-out by the Blues’ centre fielder, who ran almost into left garden for the ball and then got it an inch from the turf, receiving from an overwrought audience a burst of applause that quite embarrassed him.

In the sixth the Lynton catcher started things off with a slow bunt that third baseman overran and so reached first base. Steve Arbuckle charitably scored a hit for the batter. Then the head of the visiting team’s list came up and things again looked bad for Amesville. But Fortune favored the Blues. Tom deceived the next man and added another strike-out to his credit, and then, when the third batsman hit across to shortstop, that youth tossed to second baseman and second baseman sped the ball to first, and the Amesville partisans warmly applauded a very pretty double-play.

The Blues threatened in their half of the sixth, but failed to make good the threat. A scratch hit put Tom on first and an error spoiled what should have been a double, and the Blues, for the first time, had two men on. But things fizzled out after that. Strikes quickly disposed of the next two batsmen and the third flied out to second baseman with what, aided by a little luck, might easily have been a hit.

The stand was shouting for action now. Pitchers’ battles are interesting enough, but the audience wanted hits. It even demanded them from Lynton, and perhaps that encouragement helped to bring about what followed in that first half of the seventh. A stocky Lynton fielder laid his bat cosily against one of Tom’s fast ones and went to first. Tom tried to nail him but failed. The next batsman bunted toward third, and third baseman, running in fast, scooped up the ball neatly and tried for a double. But second baseman was off his bag when the ball got to him and the runner beat him by a matter of inches, and the subsequent peg to first was too late. That, then, was the situation when the hard-hitting Mr. Smith picked out a bat and strolled nonchalantly to the plate.

“He ought to pass him,” said Mr. Hall anxiously. Mr. Talbot nodded.

“He will.”

And he did, to the amusement of the Amesville supporters and the loudly voiced scorn of the Lynton bench. Smith accepted his fate philosophically, tossed his bat aside and walked to first.

Mr. Hall sighed. “Here’s where it goes glimmering,” he murmured.

“Looks that way,” replied Mr. Talbot. “Bases full and none out. It’s up to Tom to show some of the real stuff now.”

“If he’s got enough of it to keep one or two of those chaps from scoring, I’ll take my hat off to him,” was the reply.

“Well, you can’t tell. The weak hitters are coming up and there’s always a good chance for a double when the bags are filled. Wouldn’t care to step in there and try your hand, would you?”

But Mr. Hall shook his head most decidedly. “No, sir! I’m scared as it is! I’d never find the plate until the bases were cleared!”

The Lynton coachers were shrieking themselves hoarse and the runners were jumping and shouting with wild enthusiasm as Sam and Tom met halfway between plate and mound. Sam, ball in hand and an eye on third base, talked a moment, and Tom, a speculative gaze set on Mr. Hall, nodded. Then Sam handed the ball to him and walked cheerfully back to the plate, pulling his mask on, and Tom, hitching his trousers, motioned the fielders in.