Tom stared, open-mouthed. “You—you’ll take it, sir?”

Uncle Israel nodded. “If it don’t work like you say it will, though, I won’t pay a cent for it. We ain’t had a decent breath o’ wind for a month and we’ve been haulin’ all the water for the barn by hand. Windmills ain’t worth ten cents without wind and that one out there ain’t done a mite o’ work for a month, not to speak of.”

“But—but if you want it, sir, you may have it,” said Tom eagerly. “You’re perfectly welcome to it, Uncle.”

“Maybe I am, but I’ll pay for it. You start it out here when you get back. But if it don’t pump water for me, back it goes, Tom. Now you tell that female downstairs that, if she don’t fetch me up something to eat inside of five minutes, I’ll get up and forage for myself!”

When, on Monday morning, Tom informed him that Uncle Israel had bought the pump back, Mr. Cummings laughed until the tears came. “Tom,” he said finally, “you’ll be the death of me! Think of palming that thing off on your uncle again!”

“But it’s perfectly all right, sir,” insisted Tom.

“Sure it’s all right, son. I’m not saying it isn’t. But the idea of selling it back to Israel Bowles gets me!”

Tom couldn’t see as much humour in it as Mr. Cummings, but he smiled and hurried out to arrange for having the pump hauled out to the farm. When he returned to the store, Mr. Cummings was telling the junior partner about it, and Mr. Wright was cackling as if it was the best joke in the world.

That was a busy week for Tom. School closed on Wednesday, but before that there was a big dance in the school hall given by the graduating class. Tom went, dressed in his best suit of black serge, which was rather shiny by daylight but looked almost new at night, and had a rather enjoyable time. He didn’t dance, for he didn’t know how and would have been too shy if he had, but there were lots of other boys who didn’t dance either, and they had a merry time looking on with superior manners and passing jokes about the others. Besides that, there were wonderful refreshments and the non-dancers soon discovered that they possessed a distinct advantage in being able to visit the tables as often as they wished! Sidney, with a blue-and-gold badge pinned to the lapel of his evening coat, was in fine feather and quite in his element. Tom didn’t see very much of him, for Sidney was an indefatigable dancer and was, besides, on the committee.

The next day the graduation exercises took place in the forenoon and at three o’clock the High School team met the Amesville Electric Company nine. The Electrics were a good deal older than their opponents, but in spite of that High School had no difficulty in beating them, 14 to 6. Tom found himself again that afternoon. Each of the three pitchers was put in for three innings, Pete Farrar starting the game, Tom following him, and Toby Williams finishing out. Tom’s slants worked to perfection and in the three innings that he pitched only two men reached first base. All the runs made by the Electrics were scored during Pete’s period on the mound. Toby, if he allowed the enemy to press him hard once or twice, emerged with a clean slate.

On Thursday there was a big picnic at a neighbouring grove, but Tom, a bit conscience-stricken at having been away from the store so much, did not attend. Final baseball practice was held Friday forenoon and the boys had a severe siege of it. The pitchers worked for nearly an hour under Mr. George’s direction before they were released to take part in fielding practice. Mr. George, on Monday, had heard Tom’s account of his Saturday’s fiasco in the box and had reiterated what Mr. Cummings had said.

“You shouldn’t have tried to pitch, Tom,” he said. “You should have told Bat that you weren’t fit for it and he’d have let you off.”

“I know, sir, but after going to all that trouble to get there in time for the game——”

“That hadn’t anything to do with it. Your part is to help win games, Tom, and if you can do it better by staying out you ought to stay out. Get that? There’s no sense in a man’s pitching if he isn’t in shape, because it’s a cinch that the other fellows are going to land on him and run away with the game. Take my advice, son, and after this when you’re not up to the mark you say so. You know better than the manager—I mean the coach—how you’re feeling. It’s the team first, every time, son.”

Tom wondered a hundred times that week whether he was to be given a chance to redeem himself. Wondered, too, whether, if he was allowed to pitch on Saturday, he would be able to do any better than before. But he felt pretty confident after the game with the Electrics that he would. He realised that his inability to pitch good ball last Saturday was due to physical weariness; and mental weariness, too, perhaps; and not to any loss of cunning in that right arm of his.

Saturday dawned breathlessly still and very hot, too hot to eat any breakfast, Tom decided. But Mr. George, who came to the table while Tom was still trifling with a piece of toast and a glass of milk, decided otherwise and made the boy eat two soft-boiled eggs. At the store Mr. Cummings fussed about him all the morning, taking work out of his hands and forever bidding him take things easy and not get tired. If Mr. Cummings could have had his way, Tom would have remained seated in an arm-chair in the office all the forenoon! The game was to begin at three-thirty instead of two-thirty in order to avoid as much of the heat as possible. At luncheon Tom was much too restless and excited, too anxious, in fact, to eat without persuasion. Mr. George supplied the persuasion. After luncheon, seeing that his protÉgÉ was “up in the air,” to use his own expression, the detective took him into the side-yard and let him pitch three or four dozen balls leisurely in order to take his mind off the coming contest. Finally, when Mr. George had called a halt, and they were back in the shade of the porch, Tom asked the question that he had been eager to ask for days.

“I wonder——” he began. Then he stopped. At last he started again: “Do you suppose, Mr. George, they’re going to let me pitch to-day?”

“Sure to. I don’t know whether Bat will start you or Toby Williams, but it’s going to take more than one pitcher to get through a game on a day like this. So you’re certain to get your chance. When you do, Tom, just remember that you aren’t expected to perform any miracles. Lots of young pitchers get the idea fixed in their heads that the whole game depends on them. They get so anxious and keyed up that they don’t do themselves justice. Just remember that you’ve got eight other fellows with you, Tom, and let them do their share. When you get where it’s a case of put one across or give a base, why, slam it over and let someone else worry. And whatever you do, son, work slow. Take all the time you want—and then some! Don’t let anyone hurry you. It’s better for you and it’s harder on the batsman. Lots of men can’t stand a pitcher who’s deliberate. They want to hit and hit right away, and the more the pitcher keeps ’em waiting the more anxious they get. And there’s no one easier to handle than an over-anxious batter. He will reach out after wide ones and step back for inside ones and it’s dollars to doughnuts you’ve got his number right at the start. Just remember that, Tom. Time doesn’t cost you a cent. Help yourself to it!”

Then, later, on the way out to the grounds on the car, they went over once more the peculiarities of the players of the Petersburg team. Mr. George had them all catalogued as to their batting. This one was death on low ones outside and mustn’t have that sort. This one was a good bunter and must not be fed high ones. This one, with runners on second or third and the game at a critical place, should be passed, since he was a hard clouter. And so on, Tom listening and memorising.

“Of course, this is up to Craig,” said Mr. George, “but he may forget or mix his signals and so there’s no harm in your knowing what you’re up against. Here we are. Pile out!”

That final game drew the biggest crowd of the season, although the stands were but half-filled when the team assembled for warming-up work. By the time the game was called, however, the seats were all occupied and there was a good sprinkling of spectators along the base-lines. About everyone we know was there. Mr. Cummings, of course, rather excited and waving a palm-leaf fan in a corner of the players’ bench; Mr. and Mrs. Morris in a front row of the stand near third base; (Tom went over and chatted with them a minute just before the teams took their positions;) Mr. Tully, whom Tom had presented with a ticket, his coat in his lap and his pipe sending a cloud of smoke straight up in the still air; and several others from the boarding-house, who had in some way or other managed to get the afternoon off.

The umpire was the physical director from the Young Men’s Christian Association, who caused some amusement by appearing with the upper part of his body attired in a striped blazer of black and yellow, which he kept carefully buttoned all during the game, thus giving the impression that there was nothing underneath!

Each team warmed up three pitchers, not a very difficult feat on such a day. Of the local twirlers, Tom and Toby looked in the pink of condition, but Pete Farrar had a fagged look about him. At a few minutes before the half-hour the diamond emptied and the players retired to the benches. Then the umpire walked to the plate, swept it with a broom, and looked toward the Amesville bench.

“All right, High School,” announced Mr. Talbot. “On the run, now! Pollock, you’ll start the game. Take it easy; we’ve got nine innings to go and this is some hot!”

The fielders trotted across the sun-smitten turf to their places, Sam Craig donned his mask, Tom walked to the mound, the first of the Petersburg batsmen stepped to the plate, and the umpire called, “Play ball!”