If there is any situation in a ball game which calls for coolness and steadiness it is that in which the pitcher finds himself surrounded on three sides by base-runners and on the fourth by an adversary whose one desire in life is to hit the ball safely. And when that pitcher knows, besides, that before the fracas is over he or his mates must dispose of three of the enemy, that situation is greatly complicated. It’s a time when pitcher and catcher must work together perfectly and when the infield must back them up as never before. A time, too, when the slightest miscue proves fatal.

Tom had not only to keep the next three batsmen from hitting safely, but he must avoid allowing a long fly, since Lynton could score two runs on as many outs if the ball went to the outfielders. And he could give no passes without forcing in a tally. As Mr. Talbot had said, it was up to him to show “real stuff.”

Sam crouched and gave his signal. Shortstop got it and relayed it to the outfield. Tom wound his fingers around the ball and the shouting died down a moment. Then off shot the sphere, the Lynton batsman staggered away from the plate, and Mr. George announced “Str-r-rike!”

A burst of applause came from the stand. Third baseman, who had scuttled in toward the plate, moved back again. The Blues were talking back and forth, but their remarks were drowned by the frenzied shouting of the Lynton coachers.

Another delivery that dropped almost into the dust behind the plate went for a ball. A third cut the outer corner, waist-high, and the batsman swung violently at it and missed. Sam signalled and spread his hands wide. “Come on now! You can do it, Tom! Right over and make it good!”

But the ball didn’t go right over. Instead it curved widely and the batsman pulled his bat back before he had completed the swing.

“Two balls!” said the umpire.

“Two-and-two, Tom! That’s the stuff, old man! You’ve got him worried now!” called Sam, while from the other members of the team came cheerful shouts of encouragement. “That’s the stuff, Tom! He can’t hit you!” “One more just like it, Tom! Let him hit!” “Give him a good one, Tom; we’re right here, old man!”

And then, with a change of pace that caught the batsman napping, Tom sped one over the outer edge of the plate and the swinging bat was too late, and Amesville roared and clapped as the disgruntled batsman turned away.

“One gone!” cried Sam, holding up a finger. “Here’s the next man, fellows!”

A high one failed to prove the strike that Tom had meant it to be and he followed it with an out-shoot that was not offered at and that also went as a ball. The coachers redoubled their noise then.

“You’ve got him in a hole! He’s afraid of you, Sandy! Wait ’em out! Everybody walks now!”

But Tom came back with a slow ball that the batsman struck at too soon and fouled into the stand. Again Tom made the same offering and again the batter was fooled. “Two-and-two, Tom!” said Sam, pawing the dust between his knees before he laid three fingers against his glove. “Only one more now! Cut loose, old man! Show ’em what you have!”

But the signal didn’t call for any miracles, merely for an in-shoot, and third baseman crept in an inch or two and poised on his toes. And then away travelled the ball, the bat swung harmlessly, Sam put up a big mitt, and Mr. George shouted, “He’s out!”

Mr. Hall’s sigh of relief was audible the length of the bench in spite of the deafening plaudits of the crowd beyond, amongst whom none clapped his hands more vigourously than a late arrival, who had just squeezed himself into a seat in the front row, and who now, in order to give vent to his satisfaction, had let his cane slip away from between his knees and had dropped the grey gloves he carried.

Then while the runners on bases, seeing their opportunity fade away, shouted and leaped and scuttled back and forth, daring a throw, the Lynton centre fielder came up, anxious-eyed under a show of assurance. And Tom pitched, a slow ball that seemed of two minds about ever reaching the plate. And the batsman, eager, intense, leaned forward, swung desperately, and the sound of bat and ball meeting rang out. Cries—commands—warnings! First baseman speeding up, Sam whipping off his mask, Tom, with upraised hand, walking toward the plate, head back!

“Tom! Tom!” shouted first baseman, slowing down.

“Take it!” gasped Sam, dodging aside.

High up against the blue of the sky the ball floated, a brown speck, and then, momentarily growing larger, down it rushed. From the enemy came conflicting shouts of “Catcher’s ball!” “First baseman’s got it!” “Drop it! Drop it!” “Can’t get it, Pollock, can’t get it!” And then, standing astride the plate, the batsman grudgingly backing away, Tom poised himself, hands waiting. A step to the left at the last moment and there followed the comforting thud of ball against glove and the crisp voice of Mr. George, “Foul! He’s out!”

The audience shouted loudly, applaudingly, relieving their suspense. The men on bases strode away to their places, picking up their gloves and showing disappointment in every action. The cheering died away and the Blues went to bat. One run was needed to tie, but that one run looked very far away. Smith, the only one of the men left on bases who had appeared to accept the result philosophically—it was doubtless all in the day’s work to him—now pulled his glove on again, swept up the ball from the dirt and faced the batsman. Comparative silence reigned as the Lynton catcher crouched and laid fingers against mitt. Smith nodded imperceptibly and started his wind-up. And at that moment a polite inquiry came from the edge of the grandstand:

“Why did Shreveport let you go, Nick?”

There was a slight falter as the ball shot away, and a quick glance toward the stand as the umpire announced, “One ball!” A murmur of amusement arose from the audience. Again came the wind-up and again came the voice, clear and distinct across the diamond:

“Hard luck, Nick! Back to the bush, eh?”

Off went the ball and again the umpire disapproved, while the pitcher, squaring himself toward the stand, searched the faces there with curious gaze. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t look genuine. He failed to find the speaker, for, although many faces were turned toward a lower corner of the stand, Smith didn’t think to connect the remarks with the smartly-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man of thirty or so, who sat nonchalantly grasping a cane and a pair of grey gloves between his knees. The stand was laughing and exchanging inquiries. Further away the occupants were on foot, trying to get a glimpse of the speaker. “The chap down there in the derby, I think.” “No, the little man with the grey coat; smoking a pipe; see him?” “What did he say, anyhow?” “I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was that pitcher didn’t like it.” “Glad of it! He hasn’t any business playing ball with a lot of boys.”

Smith pitched again, and once more, although there had been no disturbing comment, he failed to put the ball over for a strike. Scurrying to their places, the Amesville coachers whooped and shouted. “Good eye, George! Wait for your base!” “You’ve got him now! Here’s where we start, fellows! Wow!”

Smith rubbed his hand in the dirt, settled the ball between his fingers and stepped forward.

“Strike—one!” called Mr. George. Lynton applauded.

Smith got the return and walked back toward his box, and as he went his gaze again sought the stand. Those who saw it laughed. The man with the grey gloves watched imperturbably. Smith got the signal, poised with upraised foot.

“What do you get for to-day, Nick?”

Away went the ball, bounded against the plate and rolled to the net. The batsman raced to first and Amesville, players and friends, laughed and shouted gleefully. Angrily Smith slapped the ball into his glove as it came back, turned, and threw to first. The baseman, not expecting the throw, tried for it and failed, and as the ball shot past his finger-tips and rolled to the seats the runner dashed for second. He had all the time in the world to make the bag and reached it standing up. Smith, still scowling, got his signals, while from all sides came the howls and shrieks of the Amesville players. He was fair game now, it seemed, and in the stand they were kicking their feet and whistling and shouting across at him. Whether he was really being paid to pitch for Lynton none knew, but all were willing to believe it.

The catcher walked down and conferred a moment and Smith nodded grudgingly and went back to the mound. But Smith was annoyed and off his game for once. Two balls followed in succession. Then came a foul. After that a third ball. Amesville jeered and redoubled her noise. Smith, trying his best to regain command of the ball, took much time between deliveries now, wound up slowly, and sped the ball away with care. But his time had come, for there was a smart crack, a streak of grey across the diamond, and the runner on second was digging for third, while down the first-base line raced the batter. Well out of the reach of shortstop or second baseman shot the ball, head-high, as clean and hard a drive to deep centre as one would want to see. Centre fielder reached it as it took its first bound, set himself, and sped the ball to second baseman and second baseman turned and pegged it to the plate. But the Blues had scored the tying run before the ball reached the catcher, and, although that youth threw well and quickly to second, the runner had taken advantage of the throw-in and was sitting comfortably, if breathlessly, on the bag!

How Amesville cheered and clapped and pounded the boards with excited feet! And what a scurrying and jostling there was about the bench as Tom, conferring with Mr. Talbot, chose a hitter to go to bat for Gordon Smith. It was Pete Farrar who was at last selected. Pete, although a pitcher, was a pretty good hitter in the pinches, and it was Pete who was now to prove the wisdom of his selection. For Pete landed on the second ball offered him and sent it arching into the very right-hand corner of the field! And, although the ball was caught after a run, it didn’t reach the infield again until the runner from second was sliding to third!

One out, then, and a man on third base! And one run needed to give the lead to Amesville! And the occupants of the stand on their feet, shouting and stamping and begging a hit! It was Sam who walked to the plate, Sam a little bit nervous and trying to make up his mind whether to follow Mr. York’s advice and take a short swing or follow the method he knew best. But he hadn’t had time to learn Mr. York’s way yet, and when, after sending a ball, Pitcher Smith sped one across the outer corner, knee-high, Sam’s effort went for naught. Another ball followed, one that passed the end of Sam’s nose and sent him “bucketting” away from the plate. And then there was another that looked good and again Sam, with shortened bat, tried his level best to connect with it and only popped a fly behind the Lynton bench. With the score two-and-two, Sam let his bat slide down until his hands were grasping the very end of it and then swung it well behind his shoulder and waited. After all, every man to his trade, he thought! Then Smith was stepping forward and the ball was coming and Sam—well, Sam was revolving on one heel and the ball was snugly nestled in the catcher’s mitt, and Sam was out!

Amesville howled with disappointment and, in the ardour of the moment, jeered Sam as he walked back to the bench. Tom, passing on his way to the plate, smiled reassuringly and murmured, “Hard luck, Sam!” Sam thought so, too.

On third the runner was dancing back and forth along the path to the plate, and everyone was talking as Tom tapped the end of his bat on the ground, rubbed his hands reflectively on his trouser legs, and then faced the pitcher. Smith was recovering now from his brief and disastrous slump, and Tom secretly had slight hopes of success. But he looked confident enough and smiled as he said something to the Lynton catcher and received a scowl in reply. The first delivery whizzed past at lightning speed and Tom knew it was a strike before the umpire opened his mouth. Then came a drop that he refused to bite at, although it looked good until the last moment. Again he let one go by, a high one that might have been good or bad, and proved bad. From the bench came encouraging cries, “You’ve got him in a hole, Tom!” “Stick to him!” “He’s got to pitch ’em!” “Here’s the one, Tom! Baste it!”

Smith was holding the ball under his chin, watching the catcher’s fingers. He shook his head. The catcher signalled again. Smith threw back his arm, raised his foot, and——

“If you’re getting more than your railway fare, Nick, you’re cheating ’em!”

Smith unwound and pitched, but his tormenter had settled the fate of that ball! A foot over the frantically upstretched hand of the catcher it flew, and Tom, having his wits about him, struck at it wildly and raced to first, while in from third base, urged on by a galloping, shrieking coach, came the runner with the longed-for tally!

Pandemonium reigned! Mr. Hall pounded Mr. Talbot on the back and Mr. Talbot slapped Mr. Hall on the knee, and the other occupants of the bench danced and capered ecstatically! And while the catcher was recovering the ball and the pitcher was guarding the plate, Tom Pollock rounded first at full speed and sped away to second. And he reached it long before the ball did, and then, getting to his feet and slapping the dust from his clothes, he smiled sweetly at the scowling baseman.

But he never got further, for a foul arched softly into third baseman’s glove and that nerve-racking eighth inning was at last over, with the Blues leading insecurely by one run.

“If they can hold it they’re all right,” murmured Mr. Hall.

“They’ve got some good hitters coming up,” replied Mr. Talbot doubtfully. “Still, if they get one across that will only tie it up again. Tom had better pass that man Smith, I guess.”

Lynton came to bat determinedly. But Tom, encouraged by success, pitched as craftily as he knew how and the first batsman struck out without a threat. And it seemed that the next was to follow the same way when Tom had two strikes and one ball on him. But, although the second man went out ultimately at first, he spoiled several good ones before he finally hit to shortstop.

“Last man!” called Sam as Smith went to the plate. In the stand they were on their feet, a few trickling down the aisles to be ready to start for home. The man with the grey gloves left his seat and, unnoticed, strolled along toward the Blues’ bench.

Perhaps Sam made an error of judgment when, instead of passing Smith, he tried to get him for the third out, for, in spite of Tom’s best efforts, the Lynton pitcher found one to his liking and leaned against it. Had he hit it fairly it would have tied the score then and there, I think; but he didn’t, and the ball, arching toward first, came down safely behind that bag and a few feet inside the foul line. What might have been expected then happened. Smith, taking a daring lead, stole on the second pitch and, although Sam stepped forward swiftly and threw as straight as an arrow, slid to the bag in safety.

That caused Tom to falter for the first time that day and, almost before anyone realised what was happening, the next batsman was walking to first. Lynton, shouting and dancing, saw her hopes revive. A pinch-hitter was sent in for the next man up. He was a tall, ungainly youth and looked anything but dangerous. But looks are sometimes deceitful. That awkward-appearing youth soon showed himself a canny batsman, and the first thing Tom knew he was in the hole with two balls against him and no strikes! And then, sensing the psychological moment, Lynton called for a double steal as Tom sped the next delivery to the plate. Off for third scudded Smith and down to second flew the next runner. The ball sailed to the plate, as nice a strike as you like, and——

“Hit it!” implored the Lynton coachers. “Hit it!”

But above their cries sounded a voice that reached Sam with startling, galvanizing effort.

“From the ear, Sam! From the ear!”

And Sam, getting the ball in spite of the batsman’s desperate swing, seized it from his mitt, jerked his arm back and, without a move from his place, launched it to second.

In raced Smith from third and down at the middle base the runner was sliding in a cloud of dust. And then it was all over. Down came second baseman’s hand, the runner slid into it, and Mr. George, slackening up as he trotted past, jerked a hand over his shoulder.

“He’s out!” he cried.