Pete Farrar had his troubles from the very first instant. After getting a strike on the batsman, he offered one in the groove and the head of the Petersburg batting-list cracked it out for two bases. That seemed to disconcert Pete a good deal. He passed the next man up, tried unavailingly to catch the first runner off second, and finally allowed the third man to send up a long sacrifice fly to the outfield, which scored one run and left a man on third. Good fielding disposed of the next two batters, and Amesville crawled out of a bad situation.

It was not until the third inning that the local team got her first man over the plate. Then a hit by Bert Meyers, a sacrifice by Frank Warner, and an error by third baseman allowed Bert to score. At one to one the game went into the fifth. Then, with the opposing pitcher at bat, Pete Farrar got careless. During four innings he had saved himself time and again “by the skin of his teeth,” to use a handy expression, or had been saved by the players behind him. Now, though, he went all bad. The Petersburg pitcher was handed his base on balls and promptly and unexpectedly stole second. The next man landed on Pete’s first offering and sent it down the right alley, scoring the pitcher. A two-bagger by the opponent’s third baseman put men on third and second and both players scored a minute later when Captain Warner pegged the ball four feet over Buster’s head. Then Pete struck a batsman on the shoulder with a wild ball and there were runners on first and second and still no one out. Pete made an effort to settle down then, after Frank Warner and Sam Craig had both talked with him, and succeeded in striking out the next batsman and causing the following one to pop a fly into shortstop’s hands. But with two out there was still trouble in store for Pete. He seemed quite unable to locate the plate and another man walked and the bases were filled.

It was then that Coach Talbot signalled to Captain Warner, and Warner called for time. Tom and Toby Williams had each been warming up, and now Mr. Talbot told Tom to go in. But when he reached the box where Captain Warner and Pete Farrar were talking together, the former turned to him with a scowl.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Mr. Talbot sent me in to pitch,” responded Tom mildly.

“Well, you can walk right back,” said Pete. “I’m on this job.”

Tom looked inquiringly at Frank Warner. The latter frowned and nodded.

“That’s right, Pollock. Run along. I’m running this team and not Bat Talbot.”

Tom retraced his steps to the bench, meeting the surprised and curious looks of his team-mates. Mr. Talbot said nothing, merely nodded understandingly.

Pete faced the next batsman and the infielders moved in toward the plate. It was a crucial moment and the stand, which had been pretty noisy most of the game, settled into silence. One ball went wide and a few jeers greeted Pete. The next, however, was a strike and a burst of applause followed. Then came another ball. On the bases the runners were ready to streak along the path at the smallest opportunity. Another strike—a low ball that just cut the outer edge of the plate—brought sighs of relief to the Amesville supporters. Then a foul went back of first and another glanced off the bat and was almost captured by Sam Craig. A wide one which the batsman refused brought the score two and three and Pete had put himself in a hole. Another foul past first spoiled one offering and then Pete put a fast one straight across and the batsman landed on it hard. In raced the men on bases and far out into the field sped the ball. But Sidney proved the hero of that occasion, for, running like a streak to his left, he made the catch at full speed, rolling over a few times on the grass as an added divertisement!

In the last of the sixth Amesville managed to almost close up her distance, scoring two runs on two hits and an error by centre fielder. The score was now four to three and everyone looked to see either Tom or Toby Williams walk to the box when the last half of the inning began. But Captain Warner, offended by what he termed Mr. Talbot’s interference, was stubborn. “Pete’s all right,” he declared to the coach. “He had a bad inning; they all do; but that’s over with. He can hold them all right. You’ll see.”

Mr. Talbot doubted it, but said nothing more and Pete went back again. He got through the seventh inning in very good shape, striking out two of the men who faced him. A runner reached second on a hit past shortstop, but the fourth batsman slammed a liner into third baseman’s glove.

Try as she might, however, Amesville was unable to add to her score in the seventh or eighth, while Petersburg got two on in the ninth, but failed to tally. In the last of the inning Smithie, first at bat, caught one where he liked it and slammed it into short centre for a base. Joe Kenny walked and Sam Craig advanced the runners with a sacrifice. Pete Farrar went out, third to first, and Buster managed to bring in the tying run with a slashing hit to second baseman too hot for that youth to handle. Then Bert Meyers hit into a double and the side was out. But the score was now four to four and Amesville in the stand shouted excitedly and demanded a new pitcher.

“Put in Pollock!” was the cry. “We want this game!”

But Frank Warner was obdurate, and Coach Talbot let him have his way. Pete Farrar went back to the box and the audience, after a moment of amazed surprise, gave voice to disapprobation.

“Take him out!” “Give us a pitcher!” “Say, Bat, use your bean!” “Put in Tom Pollock!” “Take him out!”

Mr. Talbot, on the bench, showed neither by word nor sign that he heard. Perhaps Captain Warner really believed Pete capable of holding the visitors for another inning. If he did, events proved him greatly mistaken, for that first half of the ninth was a veritable Waterloo for Pete. The Petersburg players landed on his slants and smashed them into all parts of the field. Not a man came to bat who didn’t connect safely with one of Pete’s offerings, and seven men faced him before that devastating inning was over. The stand howled protest and derision, and once Sam Craig, who had striven heroically all through the game to stave off defeat, literally threw up his hands. This was when Pete, in a rage at the storm of ridicule from the spectators, pitched a ball that went fully four feet wide of the plate. Sam spread his arms wide and made no effort to get the ball until it had struck the dirt and bounded from the back-stop, by which time Petersburg had scored her fourth run of the inning. I think Pete might have kept on pitching until darkness put a stop to the massacre had not the infield taken matters into their own hands and, assisted by the Petersburg runners, who, with the score eight to four, seemed assured of the victory, finally ended the inning. Sam Craig heaved the ball to Smithie and the shortstop, jumping across the second bag, sped it on to Bert Meyers at third. The runners at each station were caught napping and were called out, and when, a minute later, Sam again threw to second and cut off a steal, the worst was over.

That last half of the tenth was a forlorn hope for the home team. Frank Warner, smarting under the unuttered criticism of his team-mates, went very determinedly to bat and hit safely past second baseman. But, although Tommy Hughes laid down a sacrifice bunt and put the runner on second, he got no farther. Sidney was an easy out, third to first, and Smithie popped a foul into the catcher’s hands.

On the way back to town Mr. Cummings squeezed himself into the seat between Tom and Sidney. Mr. Cummings was wildly indignant. He told them just how the game should have been played and made disparaging remarks about Pete Farrar in such a loud voice that Tom was on tenterhooks lest Pete, who was only two seats ahead, should hear.

That first game of the Petersburg series caused all sorts of commotion in school. Those who did not know the true inwardness of the matter blamed Coach Talbot for the loss of the contest, while of those who did know many still blamed him for not using his authority and taking Pete out of the box in the fifth inning in spite of Captain Warner. Indignation meetings were numerous on the following Monday and there was talk of a petition requesting Frank Warner’s resignation and many demands for a new coach. But by the middle of the week the fellows calmed down and decided to await the outcome of the next game before taking steps. The next meeting between the rivals was to take place two weeks from the first contest and was to be held at Petersburg, while the deciding game, if necessary, was to be played a week later at Amesville.

In the meanwhile Pete Farrar was far from popular, although he blustered around much as usual and had plenty of explanations to offer all who would listen to them. Nor was Frank Warner much more in favour. Amesville took the Petersburg games pretty seriously and even the final examinations, which were now causing trouble for many of the pupils, failed to take the fellows’ minds away from baseball.

Tom got through his examinations very well, if not exactly with flying colours. It was hard to serve two masters just then and I fancy Tom would have got higher marks in an examination on baseball than he did on his school courses. But he got by fairly creditably, for all of that. Sidney, who was always a brilliant student, did so well, though, that Tom felt rather humiliated. Sidney was now very full of plans and details for the graduation party, for he had been elected a member of the committee having that important function in charge, and Tom saw less of him than usual. At the store the early spring business had quieted down. June, for some reason, was generally a dull month. The sporting goods department had done a wonderful business that year, and even Mr. Wright took occasion to compliment Tom on the fact.

“Very satisfactory, Tom, very satisfactory,” he declared, drumming nervously on the top of the showcase. “We—ah—we think you deserve much credit. And we’ve decided that—er—well, Mr. Cummings will tell you about that.”

Mr. Cummings, however, had already told him. Tom was to have an increase in wages in September, on the completion of his second year in the store. His salary was to be eight dollars a week instead of five. Moreover, when Tom was through school and could give his entire time to the business, he was to be paid twelve dollars; and Mr. Cummings hoped, he said, that Tom would decide to stay with them. Tom replied that he had no desire to leave.

“Well, we don’t want you to, Tom. You’ve made a paying thing of that department of yours and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be developed even more, nor why, when you have more time to give to it, it shouldn’t make more money for us than it’s doing now. And you mustn’t think that twelve dollars is as far as you can go with us, either. We’re willing to pay for what we get, Tom, and just as soon as you can show us you’re worth fifteen or twenty or even thirty, son, you’ll get it.”

Life looked very bright to Tom just then, and when, on the next Saturday afternoon, he pitched Amesville High to a hard-won victory over Lynton, going the whole nine innings without a falter and receiving the best of support from his team-mates, his cup of happiness seemed filled to overflowing. Mr. George returned on the morning of that day, watched his protÉgÉ perform, and had all sorts of nice things to say to him afterward. To be sure, there was criticism interspersed with the praise, for naturally enough Tom still showed inexperience, but Tom was quite as grateful for the criticism as for the praise. Mr. Cummings rubbed his hands all the way back—he seldom missed a game now—and beamed proudly upon Tom. One would have thought from the senior partner’s attitude toward the boy that he was directly responsible for the latter’s baseball prowess! The school viewed Tom as a hero and impatiently reiterated its former conundrum, Why had not Tom been allowed to pitch against Petersburg?

“Just wait until next Saturday, though,” it said confidently. “We won’t do a thing to those dubs, with Pollock in the box! Just watch us!”

There was no Wednesday game that week, as it happened, since Turner’s Falls cancelled her date because of the illness of two of her best players. But there were four days of the hardest sort of practice. And the fellows stood in need of it, since examinations had seriously interfered with the attendance of late. Tom spent Wednesday afternoon with the team and worked hard, so hard that Mr. George forbade practice in the side-yard when they returned home.

“It won’t do to run any risks with your arm, Tom,” he said. “I suppose they’ll pitch you Saturday. Can’t see what else they can do. So you want to take things easy, son.”

The next afternoon—examinations were about over and Tom had returned to the store directly after lunch—he was called to the telephone. It was a neighbour of Uncle Israel’s speaking. Aunt Patty had asked her to tell Tom that his uncle was very ill and to say that he had better come home. Tom caught a train at a few minutes past four and went out to Derry. Uncle Israel had caught cold a day or two before and was pretty sick, Aunt Patty explained anxiously. The doctor came soon after Tom arrived and was not very encouraging. It was lung congestion, he said, and Mr. Bowles was a very ill man. Whether pneumonia would result he wouldn’t predict. Aunt Patty took full command of the situation, a neighbour came in to cook, and Tom and John Green sat down to a very cheerless supper. Friday morning Uncle Israel was rather worse than better, and Tom, remembering that he was to accompany the baseball team to Petersburg the next day, considered calling up Mr. Talbot on the telephone and reporting the situation. But the nearest telephone was at a neighbour’s house, a full half-mile distant—Uncle Israel had always refused to have anything to do with such a silly contraption—and Tom decided to wait until morning. He had already informed Mr. Cummings that he would not be back for a day or two. Saturday morning, after an anxious night of it, Uncle Israel’s condition was improved and when, at about eleven o’clock, the doctor arrived he declared that all danger was passed and that careful nursing and proper diet would bring the patient around as well as ever. Tom talked it over with Aunt Patty, and Aunt Patty said he had better go back.

“Sakes alive,” she said, “there ain’t anything you can do here, Tom. If a man’s needed, why, there’s John; not that I’m pretending he’s much use, though!” (This for the benefit of the hired man who had just stamped in with fire-wood and who only grinned and winked at Tom.) “Just you run along and play your games, Tom. You’ll come back again to-night, anyway, I s’pose?”

Tom hurriedly answered that he would, and sprinted for the station, just managing to catch the last train that might get him to Amesville in time to join the team on its trip to Petersburg. But the train, a slow one at best, took longer than usual to dawdle into Amesville, and when Tom, after stopping at Mrs. Tully’s to change into his uniform, reached the place from which the special car was to leave, there was no car in sight and inquiry elicited the fact that it had been gone a full ten minutes. The next regular trolley car for Petersburg was not due to leave until a quarter-past one. There was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad situation. Tom ate a hurried lunch at a small restaurant nearby, all the while keeping a close watch on the clock. When, finally, he dashed back to the trolley station he felt very uncomfortable inside. The car swung up and Tom climbed aboard. He was not fortunate enough to get a seat and so stood on the rear platform. The conductor, in reply to Tom’s inquiry, told him that the car would reach Petersburg at ten minutes past two, if it was on time. Tom silently hoped that it would be, because the game was to begin at two-thirty.

But that car seemed possessed of a spirit of procrastination and delay. At every siding, after it had passed into the country, it stood and waited interminable hours, as it seemed to Tom, while some car bound in the opposite direction appeared leisurely in the distance, bore down upon them and, finally, sidled past. A mile outside of Petersburg it seemed determined to take root. Tom asked what the trouble was—he had secured a seat by this time—and the conductor paused long enough to inform him that the south-bound car was twelve minutes late. It was already five minutes past two and Petersburg was a mile away. And, besides that, Tom hadn’t the least idea where the ball ground was. Another five minutes passed and still no car appeared. Tom’s nerves were getting panicky. The twelve minutes were already gone. He had only twenty minutes left before the game. He dropped off the car and started up the track.

Five minutes later a road appeared and he climbed a fence and reached it, hoping that a vehicle would come along and give him a lift. But no vehicle appeared and it was almost half-past when, much out of breath and very hot, he walked into the town. Luckily the ball ground was only a block or two away from where he made an inquiry and he actually reached the gate on the instant of half-past two. He had difficulty convincing the youth who presided at the entrance that he was a member of the visiting team, but finally succeeded and hurried in. The teams were still warming up as Tom appeared. Mr. Talbot caught sight of him and greeted him with a frown.

“Well, we thought you weren’t coming, Pollock,” he said. “What was the trouble?”

“I couldn’t leave home until late, sir, and when I got uptown the car had gone. I came along on the next one. I’m sorry, sir.”

He didn’t explain that he had walked a mile or more or that he felt about as little like pitching baseball as anyone could! Mr. Talbot viewed him doubtfully.

“Well, you’d better sit down and get cooled off. How’s your arm?”

“All right, sir.”

“Hm! We’d just decided to let Williams start. Perhaps he had better, anyway. Captain Warner!”

In response to the hail Frank Warner joined them by the bench. “Here’s Pollock,” said the coach. “He missed a train or something. What do you think about him? Shall we start him or let Williams go in?”

Frank nodded to Tom. “Why, Pollock’s here, Mr. Talbot, and he might as well pitch,” he answered. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“I guess so. I only wondered whether to save him for a few innings.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to take any chances,” replied Frank. “We need this game, you know, sir.”

Mr. Talbot nodded assent, glanced at his watch, and turned again to Tom. “If you’re to start this,” he said, “you’d better warm up. Johnson, come over here and catch Pollock, will you?”

Johnson, who played first base on the scrubs and had accompanied the team as a substitute infielder, backed against the netting and Tom unlimbered. It was nearly twenty minutes to three now and Petersburg was clamouring for the start. Mr. Talbot was talking to the umpire, a small ferret-eyed man in a dingy blue baseball jacket, and Tom fancied that he was merely trying to delay the game long enough to allow him to warm up. Pete Farrar and Toby Williams had finished their preliminary exercise and gone back to the visitors’ bench. Pete had frowned upon Tom’s belated arrival, but Toby, who had more to lose to-day by Tom’s advent, waved cheerfully to him.

It took only three or four passes of the ball to inform Tom that the morning’s exertion and nervous anxiety had left him in poor shape to pitch his best game, but as he went on his arm and wrist regained something of their skill. He wished that Mr. George was there. He’d have felt more confident. But the detective had not accompanied the team to-day.

“All right, fellows,” announced Captain Warner. “High School at the bat. You’re up, Buster.”

And Tom, rolling the ball toward the bench, followed it and took his place, regretful that he had not had another ten minutes of work.