The Lynton team still fought under the high school banner, although, like the Amesville team, it had been weakened by the absence of several of its good players. Few if any of the ten youths who journeyed to the neighbouring town that Saturday afternoon expected to win the game, for earlier in the year the Lynton team had defeated them quite decisively; and at that time they had possessed all the strength of the regular high school line-up, whereas to-day the nine was rather a makeshift affair.

But, after all, the main thing was to play baseball and have a good time, and, consequently, it was a happily irresponsible group that took possession of the two last seats of the big yellow electric car at Main and Ash streets at twenty minutes to two and went whizzing across country at a good thirty miles an hour, swaying and bouncing along an air-line track that dipped into vales and climbed hills with a fine disregard of grades.

There was Thorny Brooks, who pitched, and Walter White, who caught him, and Tommy Hughes, who played centre field, and “Buster” Healey, who held down first, and six other lads of varying ability, size, and age, including Tom himself and a grammar-school youngster named Peddie, who was a distant cousin of White’s and who, volunteering for the position, had been accorded the office of bat-boy and general outfield substitute. He was a nice-looking, fresh-faced kiddie of fourteen, whose pleasure at accompanying the team was very evident. Going over, White and Thorny Brooks arranged the batting-list, after much discussion, and Tom was given the honour of third place.

“You’re a pretty good hand with the stick,” explained the captain, “and if Buster or I get on bases you may be able to work us along or bring us in. Did anyone bring a score-book?”

George Peddie blushingly produced one from a hip-pocket and the batting-list was copied into it, no easy task with the big car apparently trying its best to jump the rails! They reached Lynton, an overgrown sort of village surrounded by truck farms, at a few minutes past two. A walk of a few blocks brought them to the field, where, as the game was not to begin until three, they put in a good half-hour of practice. It was a warm day, but not excessively hot. Already there was a hint of autumn in the intense blue of the sky and the fresher feeling of the little breeze that crept across the neatly tilled fields. After they had had all the work Walter White thought good for them they were called in and ranged themselves along the scarred benches that stood in the shade of a grandstand. By ones or twos or in little groups the spectators began to arrive, and at a quarter to three the Lynton team came on. Several of them walked over and shook hands with Walter and Thorny and others of the visitors and conversed a few moments. The matter of choosing an umpire was soon arranged, Lynton offering a choice of either of two high school teachers. Then Lynton took the field to warm up and Thorny, pulling on his glove and picking up a ball, called for someone to catch him.

“You’ll do, Tom. Come on out here.”

So Tom borrowed Walter’s big glove and stood up in front of the stand. At first Thorny’s pitches were easy to handle, but as he began to warm up Tom found the ball more difficult to judge. Several times he was badly fooled by the pitcher’s elusive drops, while his out-shoot was so extreme that Tom more than once moved to the right only to have the ball bring him sidling back again. Thorny was amused.

“Fool you, do they, Tom?” he asked.

Tom smiled and nodded. “I’m glad I don’t have to bat them,” he said.

The Blues went to bat first and both Buster Healey and Walter White reached first, Buster on balls and the captain on a clean hit between first and second that advanced Buster to second. Then Tom faced the Lynton pitcher, who had something of a local reputation in his line, with misgivings. Down at second Buster danced and ran back and forth. At first, Walter took a good ten-foot lead. “Hit it out, Pollock!” he called encouragingly. “He hasn’t a thing on the ball!”

But the Lynton pitcher had enough on it to puzzle Tom, and Tom, after knocking two fouls back of third, hit straight into the pitcher’s glove and the pitcher, whirling quickly, caught Walter a yard off the base. The next batsman made the third out and the teams changed places. Lynton didn’t even get a man to first in that inning, nor did the Blues do any better in their half of the next. In fact, nothing much happened until the fourth inning, when Lynton managed to get a man to second on a clean hit and then, with two out, brought him home with a teasing Texas Leaguer that fell midway between shortstop and centre fielder. So far Tom, in left field, had had no work to do, while at bat he had twice failed to make a hit.

The Blues came back in the first of the fifth and, by a lucky infield hit that bounded meanly, placed a runner on the first bag. Tommy Hughes sacrificed with a long fly to right and put the runner on third. A moment later the score was tied when one of the tail-enders made a slashing wallop over second baseman’s head. At one to one the teams battled along until the seventh. Then ill-fortune took a hand in affairs. The Lynton third baseman caught a slow ball on his bat and smashed it straight at Thorny. The latter might readily have been excused for jumping away from it and leaving it for second baseman to handle, but instead of that he tried to knock it down—catching it was almost out of the question—and succeeded. But the ball caught him squarely on his throwing wrist and in the agony of the pain Thorny was unable to get it to first in time to head off the runner. Time was called while Walter White went down and rubbed the injured hand, and presently Thorny went on again. But after he had pitched a few more balls the wrist began to swell and stiffen and his offerings became very easy for the enemy. For the rest of that inning smart fielding delayed the inevitable, and, although Lynton got a runner on third and another on first, they died there.

Thorny walked rather dejectedly to the bench and his team-mates clustered anxiously about him and viewed the swollen wrist.

“Cold water is what you want there,” said Tommy Hughes. “Who’s got a handkerchief?”

When one was forthcoming Tommy wet it at the water pail and bound it around the wrist.

“It feels good,” said Thorny, “but I don’t believe I’ll be able to pitch any more, fellows. I’m awfully sorry. I ought to have let that pesky ball go by. It was coming about a mile a minute. Can’t you finish the game out, Buster?”

“Me?” Buster looked startled. “Gee, I couldn’t pitch anything those fellows wouldn’t make mince-meat of!”

“I’ll try it,” said Walter doubtfully, “if you’ll go behind the bat, Buster.”

“Then who’ll take first?”

“Move Sanborn over from third and let Tommy take Sanborn’s place,” suggested Thorny. “Then put young Peddie in centre.”

“All right. Can you bat this inning? You’re up after Tommy.”

“Yes, I’ll take another whack at it,” said Thorny. “What we’ve got to do, fellows, is make a few runs. They won’t do a thing to us now. No offence to you, Walt.”

“Oh, I know it,” said Walter sadly. “They’ll everlastingly knock me all around the lot. I’m not going to try to work any curves on them, Thorny. My curves are fine, only they don’t go over. I’ll give ’em straight balls and trust to luck. That umpire’s pretty easy on the pitcher. You’re up, Tommy. Go on. There’s one down. Try to lay down a bunt along the third-base line, Tommy, and run like thunder.”

Tommy followed directions so well, even to running “like thunder,” that he got safely to the first sack, the third baseman coming in hurriedly for the ball and heaving it over the first baseman’s head.

“If he’d been watching he could have gone on to second,” grumbled Walter. “You’re up, Thorny. Send him along, old man.”

Thorny had not made a hit so far. Realising that he would have no other chance to-day, he went very determinedly to the plate and swung his bat. For a pitcher Thorny was a very fair batter, although to-day he certainly had not proved it. But a hit was due him and he got it. Letting three offerings go by, two of them balls and one a called strike, he picked out the fourth and “took it on the nose.” Away it went into short left. Tommy scuttled to second like a hunted rabbit and Thorny made first. There he called to Walter and there was a conference. Then Buster was called to run for the injured one and Sanborn walked to the plate. The Lynton pitcher made three attempts to catch Buster off the bag, possibly in the hope that Tommy would attempt to steal third and get thrown out there. But Buster was too quick for a right-handed pitcher. Sanborn began to pop up fouls and put every Amesville player’s heart in his mouth half a dozen times. But both catcher and third baseman just managed to miss the ball at every attempt and Sanborn, with two strikes and one ball on him, was still safe. Then came the signal for a hit-and-run and Sanborn swung madly at an out-shoot that cut the corner of the plate waist-high. By some trick of good luck he connected and the ball went flying toward first baseman. But between him and the oncoming ball dashed Buster Healey on his way to second and that was just enough to confuse the baseman momentarily. He got the ball on a high bound, dropped it, picked it up again, and raced for his base. Over at third, Tommy, never stopping, spurned the bag under foot and raced for the plate. Cries from the Lynton catcher and half the Lynton team filled the air. Too late to make his out at first, the baseman turned, recovered himself, and hurled the ball home. It went wide of the plate by five feet, Tommy was safe, Buster was on third, and Sanborn was sliding, feet-foremost, into second, where an agonised shortstop implored the catcher to send the ball to him!

Amesville cheered and jumped in front of the bench and Tommy, patting the dust from his clothes and grinning, was thumped ecstatically on the back. When his team-mates had got through with him you couldn’t have found a speck of dust anywhere on him! There was still only one gone and runners on second and third. But the tail-end of the Blue’s batting list was up and the outlook wasn’t very bright. Still, sometimes the unexpected happens, and it happened to-day. Little Smith, the weakest batter on the nine, although a remarkably clever shortstop, connected with the first ball pitched and drove it far into centre field. He was so surprised that he just stood there and held his bat until Walter yelled to him to run. However, running did him no good, for centre fielder was easily under the fly and Smith was out. But Buster Healey was ambling home and Sanborn was streaking it for the plate. The ball began its homeward flight just as Sanborn rounded third and it was a narrow squeak for him. But he made it, or so the umpire declared, and that was enough. The score stood four to one now and Amesville dared to hope that, even without the further services of Thorny, she might hold her own and take a victory home with her. The inning ended a few minutes later without further scoring and the Blues put their new line-up in the field. Lynton howled gleefully when she saw Walter walk over to the pitcher’s box and pick up the ball. Young Peddie, almost trembling with excitement, scooted out to centre field and the other changes were made as Thorny had suggested.

Perhaps Lynton expected Walter to offer her something puzzling and so for awhile was at a loss to fathom his sort of pitching. At any rate, he managed to dispose of the first batsman easily, causing him to pop up a weak infield fly that settled cosily into Sanborn’s glove. But after that, the head of the Lynton batting-list coming up, the trouble began. Walter’s straight balls were fine for fattening batting averages! The only variation he attempted was in height, and he not always succeeded there. At all events, high, low, or medium, his offerings met ready acceptance and soon the fielders were very busy. Tom got his first chance in left field and made a brilliant catch after running half-way across the field. The infield scurried about like a lot of mice and the crack of bat against ball became terribly monotonous to the wearers of the blue stockings. Poor Walter stood up to it bravely, a rather sickly smile on his face, and fed his offerings to the delighted enemy. Before anyone realised it the bases were filled. To be sure, there were two out by that time, but that didn’t deter Lynton any. A hit past shortstop, and a runner came in. An error by Sanborn at first, and another run trickled over the plate. A smashing drive that was too hot for third baseman to handle left men on second and first. But Lynton’s best batsmen had passed now and the trouble was over, as it proved. A nice low ball was selected by the batter and it went far and high into centre field. The Blues, watching, groaned. For in centre stood young Peddie, his eyes fixed on the arching sphere and eagerness and excitement in every line of his tense poise. Tom dug across in the hope of making the catch, but there was no time for him to get under it. Down it came, while the bases were emptied, and up went Peddie’s hands. Then the miracle happened! The ball descended squarely into the fielder’s glove and, to the astonishment and joy of the Blues, actually stuck there! The side was out!

Peddie was a hero and every fellow said nice things to him and thumped him on the back, just as they had thumped Tommy Hughes, and caused him to blush like a girl in pleasure and embarrassment.

And Amesville, accepting that piece of good fortune as an augury, went to bat in the first of the ninth quite hopefully.