Amesville was still in the lead with one run, the score being 4 to 3, when Buster Healey strode to the plate with a confident swagger and tapped his bat determinedly. But pride goeth before a fall, and it took just two deliveries to dispose of the head of the Blue’s batting-list. A nice fast ball swept past him, breast-high, and the umpire announced a strike. Buster smiled scornfully. Again the Lynton pitcher wound up and sped the sphere forward and this time Buster liked what was coming and swung for it. But the ball was a drop and Buster’s bat slid over the top of it and the ball trickled some three feet in front of the plate. Buster lit out for the bag, but the ball reached it while he was still only half-way along the path and he turned disgustedly toward the bench.

The Lynton supporters in the stand, a noisy two or three hundred in all, howled their glee and the umpire called “Batter up, please!”

That meant Walter White, and Walter, realising that in all probability his team would have no other chance to add to their total, took his place and faced the pitcher coolly and craftily. He meant to get to first somehow. Once there, he would trust to his speed or to Tom or Tommy Hughes to bring him home. The first delivery was wide of the plate, and Amesville, on the bench, shouted derisively. Walter swung his bat back and forth over the plate in an effort to disconcert the pitcher. Another ball went by.

“That’s the stuff, Walt!” called Thorny. “Make him pitch, old man!”

Then came an out-shoot that went for a strike and a foul that fell harmlessly in the stand and put the score two and two. A trace of anxiety crept into Walter’s face as he awaited the next offering. The pitcher was very deliberate, wrapping his fingers about the ball with more than ordinary care and giving the impression that he was about to offer one of his most eccentric curves. But what really came was a fast ball, high and straight over the centre of the plate. That was enough for Walter. Around came his bat, there was a sharp crack, and the ball streaked across the diamond, past shortstop, who made a gallant and desperate effort to reach it, and well into the outfield. Walter stood triumphantly on first and Amesville shouted joyfully.

Tom knew that Walter would steal if he got half a chance and so he allowed the first ball to pass unconcernedly. It was high and wide, for the catcher expected the Blue’s captain to try for second. But Walter knew better than to try a steal on the first delivery. Then came a strike, a drop that settled down knee-high as it reached the plate. It was likely then, Tom reasoned, that the pitcher would pitch another ball, probably a wide one, in the hope of making him reach out for it. And Tom’s guess was the right one, for that is just what he did. And the score was one and two. On first base, Walter leaped and shouted, and from the bench came encouraging cries.

“He’s up in the air, Tom!” “Wait for your base! He can’t put ’em over!”

Then, as the Lynton pitcher wound up again, Tom got the signal from Walter. The ball floated lazily toward him, dropping slowly as it came. “There he goes!” shouted the Lynton infield, and Walter was sprinting for second. Tom swung hard at the ball, missed it cleanly, and heard it thud into the catcher’s mitten. He knew enough not to step out of the way and so held his place stolidly at the plate while the Lynton catcher, tossing off his mask, side-stepped and hurled the ball to second. But there was desperation in Walter’s effort and he had hooked one foot into the base before the shortstop swung down at him. After that Tom was free to do as he liked and he refused the next delivery and the umpire endorsed his judgment by calling it a ball. He began then to hope that he might get his base as a gift, but with three balls against him the Lynton pitcher settled down and curved one over the corner of the plate and Tom never even offered at it. He felt rather cheap as he walked back to the bench under the hoots of the audience.

“Hard luck,” said Tommy as he passed to take his turn. Tom seated himself and watched Tommy’s efforts. Tommy had a strike called on him, popped a foul back of third baseman, and then let go at the next ball and hit safely through second baseman, advancing Walter to third. But the next batsman was young Peddie and, after swinging wildly at the first three balls offered him, he and the side retired together.

Lynton started their half of the ninth with a vast amount of confidence and a very evident intention of pulling the game out of the fire. Nevertheless, Walter managed to strike out the first batsman, and, with the weak hitters coming up, it seemed that possibly, after all, the Blues might win out. But the next man got his base on balls and jogged to second a moment later when a wild pitch got by Buster and rolled to the fence. That seemed to be Walter’s undoing, for after that he was as wild and uncontrolled as a hawk. With one strike and three balls on the second batsman, he made a desperate effort to put a low one across and managed to hit the man in the leg. By that time the stand was in an uproar and Walter began to show nervousness. The next batter hit safely and the bases were filled. Behind the Blues’ captain the infield were doing their best to encourage him and pull him together.

“Take your time, Walt! Lots o’ time! Let him hit it!” “You’re doing fine, old man! Don’t let ’em worry you! Put over a few; we’re here!”

But Walter’s arm had lost what little cunning it had possessed. Now and then he managed to get a ball over the plate, and when he did a rude Lynton batsman would rap it. Even the very tail-enders were hitting him now and in a trice the tying run came in and the bases were still full, with but two out. Walter faced the next batter desperately, got Buster’s signal, and let drive. It was a wild effort and only by dropping flat on the ground was Buster able to stop the ball and keep the man on third from racing home. When he got to his feet again he turned to the umpire and asked for time. Then, amidst the jeering shouts of the audience, he walked down to the box.

“Look here, Walt,” he said quietly, “you’re all in. If we can keep the score tied up, we may win in the next inning. Isn’t there any other fellow who can pitch a little!”

Walter looked hopelessly about the field and shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Most any of them could do better than I’m doing now, though, I guess.” He called to Smith and that youth joined them.

“Smithie, can you pitch at all?” asked Walter.

Smith shook his head. “I suppose I could shy the ball somewhere near the plate, but I guess that’s about all. Say, Pollock can pitch a little. I’ve seen him working with Sid Morris. He isn’t much, I guess, but he has something on it. Why don’t you give him a chance, Walt? He’d do a heap better than I could, anyway.”

“Tom Pollock!” Walter shouted and waved to where Tom was sitting on his heels over in left. “Come in here!” Then, turning to Buster: “You go back to first and I’ll catch again. I can do that,” he added disgustedly, “if I can’t pitch. Say, Pollock,” he went on as Tom trotted up, “can you pitch any?”

Tom hesitated, a trifle startled. “Why, I don’t know,” he answered doubtfully. “I suppose I can, a little.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake, go in and get us through the inning if you can. These fellows are weak batters. If you’ve got anything at all, you can fool them. Know any signals?”

Tom shook his head. Walter turned his back to the enemy and walked Tom aside. “What can you pitch?” he asked.

“Nothing but an out-curve and a straight ball,” answered Tom apologetically.

“That’s good enough. Now, here,” Walter laid a finger of his right hand over his glove. “One finger; see? A straight, low ball. Two fingers, a straight high one. Four fingers, a wide ball. Five fingers, an out-shoot. Get that? You watch my fingers before you pitch; see? And if you can’t make ’em out shake your head. Now, then, what are the signals?”

Tom repeated them and Walter gave him an encouraging slap on the back. “You’ll do, Pollock. Don’t be afraid of them. Watch the signals and try to give me what I ask for.” And Walter walked back to the plate, tossed the ball to Tom, and donned his mask again.

Tom wished for a minute that he were many miles away. The few hundred persons in the stand suddenly looked like a thousand and their derisive laughter and shouted comments made his ears tingle. Behind him, as he drew his cap down firmly and hitched up his trousers—not because there was any danger of their slipping down, but because he had seen Thorny do it—his team-mates spoke encouragingly and cheerfully.

“That’s the stuff, Pollock! Show ’em what you can do!” “Remember, Tom, we’re here right behind you! Take your time, old man!”

The batsman stepped out of the box and Tom sent half a dozen balls to Walter to limber his arm up. In spite of an attempt to put them over the plate, they went everywhere and Tom’s heart sank as Walter reached this way and that to pull them in. If he didn’t do better than that against the batsman, he’d make a frightful mess of it! At last, “Play ball!” said the umpire.

The batsman stepped back into the box, grinning and tapping his bat against the plate, and Tom looked to Walter for the signal, trying hard not to see the faces of the onlookers in the stand nor to hear their sarcastic comments and advice. Walter held one finger extended earthward under cover of his big mitt as he crouched behind the batter, the signal for a low ball. The batsman was a tall, weedy youth and a knee-high offering was likely to get by him. Tom gripped the ball, fixed his gaze on the lower point of Walter’s body protector, raised his hand well back and swung it forward. Walter leaped a yard to the right and saved the day, for the ball was intent on tearing a hole in the stand. Shouts and hoots and the thumping of feet came from the seats, and Tom, with sinking heart, tried to hide his embarrassment by picking up a pebble and tossing it away, just as he had seen Thorny do. Then the ball came back to him.

“Take it easy, Pollock!” called Walter cheerfully. “Right across now, old man!”

But his fingers called for an out-curve and, with fear and mental trembling, Tom wrapped his thumb and first two fingers about the dirt-stained ball. Back went his arm overhead, up came his left foot, forward swept the hand, turning palm-uppermost as it descended, away went the ball, and Tom, crouching after the throw, watched anxiously. Straight for the batsman sped the ball and then, suddenly, as though responding to a sudden change of mind, it “broke” to the left, the batsman swung and missed, and Walter snuggled the sphere in his big mitt. It was the most pronounced break Tom had ever seen on his efforts, and a vast relief and encouragement came to him. If he could make that out-shoot go, he could certainly put a straight ball where it was wanted! “Strike one!” announced the umpire. The Blues broke into expressions of approval and satisfaction.

“That’s the stuff, Tom! You’ve got him swinging like a gate!” “He couldn’t see it, old man! You’ve got the stuff, all right, all right! Show it to him!” “Fine pitching, Pollock! Keep it up!”

Walter signalled for a high ball over the plate and this time Tom sent it swift and true. The batsman stepped back, hesitated, and swung—and again missed!

“Strike two!” droned the umpire, and, “Two and two, Pollock! Keep at him!” shouted Walter.

A low ball followed and the batsman disdained it. Unfortunately so did the umpire. Walter looked his disgust. “Hard luck,” he called as he tossed the ball back. “It was a dandy, Pollock. Let’s have another just like it!”

On the bases the waiting runners jumped and scurried and shouted, and back of first and third bases leathern-lunged coachers shot a cross-fire past Tom’s ears. “Some pitcher, what, Billy?” called the fellow behind third. “Used to pitch for the Gas House Team, he did! Watch that wind-up! Ain’t it a peach? He’s got everything there is—not!”

“Here we go! Here we go!” chanted the fellow at first. “Watch for a homer, fellows! Don’t tire yourselves running; just walk in! Now! now! now! Hi! hi! hi! There it is!”

Then the coachers’ voices were suddenly stilled, for the batter had swung at an out-curve and missed it by a good three inches, and Tom Pollock had made his first strike-out! That was worth living for, that moment! Tom wondered if the others, the fellows about him and the noisy crowd in the stand, could guess the feeling of absolute rapture that was his as the bat swept harmlessly over the ball. Something was singing inside him and there was a delicious tingle in his fingers and toes. He had pitched in a real game and struck out a batsman! He felt very, very proud and happy just then, and not a little astonished, too. He wished that Sidney might have been there to see it!

Then a new batter faced him at the plate, the ball was in his glove again, and once more Walter was stooping and giving his signal. The next batsman, perhaps from having watched Tom’s delivery, was more canny. Two deliveries went as balls. Then he swung and missed a high one. After that he spoiled two perfectly good offers by fouling, and, with the score two and two, found one to his liking and cracked it far into centre field. In raced the runner from third, around the bases sped the others, and far and high arched the tiny ball against the blue afternoon sky. Tom turned and watched with his heart in his mouth. Out there Tommy Hughes was trotting confidently back. Then down settled the ball, up went Tommy’s hands, and the inning was over!