Mr. Cummings, who had not failed to inquire anxiously between the innings how Tom felt, and who had on each occasion received the same answer, “Fine, thanks, sir!” found Tom’s reply this time less reassuring.

“I’m all right, Mr. Cummings,” Tom said. “I’ll be glad when it’s over, though. It’s the first time I’ve pitched nine innings to real batters, sir.”

“Arm getting tired?” asked Mr. Cummings solicitously.

Tom shook his head and smiled. “No, sir, it’s my head. I never knew before,” he added, “that a pitcher did so much pitching with his head!”

“Well, just you keep it up, son. You’ve done great work so far. Don’t you let ’em get at you this time!”

“I’ll try not to,” replied Tom quietly, slipping out of his coat.

But the pace had been hard, and Tom was feeling it now. He put himself in a hole with the first batsman when what should have been a straight one went wild, an out-shoot missed the plate by an inch and a drop was judged too low by the umpire. With three balls and no strikes, Tom recalled Mr. George’s advice and shook his head when Sam asked for an in-shoot. Instead he sent a ball straight over, fast but with nothing on, and scored a strike. Again Sam wanted a curve, and again Tom shook his head. This time, with a change of pace, he tried a slow ball in the groove, and the batsman struck and missed.

“He can’t do it again, Jimmy! Make it be good, old scout!” shouted the coach on first.

Another straight ball in the groove, breast-high this time. The batter found it, there was a sharp crack, and the ball was sailing into the outfield over second baseman’s head. By the time Tommy Hughes had run in and thrown it to Frank Warner the runner was safe on second base, and Petersburg was howling her triumph. For a minute it seemed that Tom was going to put himself in the hole again, for his first two deliveries were balls. But a “knuckler” fooled the second batsman and a drop that looked awfully good until it was almost at the plate evened the score. Then a low one straight across the rubber, which the batsman swung at terrifically and missed by inches, made the first out. The next man landed on the first ball and drove it between shortstop and third, but Joe Kenny had sneaked in and his throw to the plate, while it let the batsman get to second, held the first runner at third, and brought a salvo of applause from the home-team’s supporters.

Tom was bothered now by the memory of that steal to the plate and was afraid to wind up lest the runner on third duplicate the performance of his team-mate. The result was that the batsman, after fouling several times and having two strikes called on him, got his base on balls. There was but one out now and the bases were filled, and Petersburg was cheering and shouting continuously and beating time lustily with feet and hands. Back of first and third the coachers kept up an unceasing cross-fire. On the bench Mr. George leaned forward anxiously.

“If he gives that fellow one on the outside, it’s all over,” he muttered. Mr. Talbot nodded.

“If we get out of this mess with less than two runs coming across, we’ll be lucky,” he said.

Sam Craig walked down and conferred a minute with Tom, and the visiting partisans hooted loudly. The infield moved in to cut off runs at the plate. It was Petersburg’s chance to win the game.

Tom knew that he must at least keep the next two men from hitting out of the infield. Neither of them were dangerous batters, although that counted for little since at such times it frequently happens that the poorest hitter on a team comes to the mark with a rescuing wallop. The first batsman was plainly anxious to hit, and Sam took his cue from that. The first ball was a drop that failed to please the umpire. Sam was more than ordinarily deliberate in returning the ball to Tom, and Tom was as slow as cold molasses. He looked all over the field before he even faced the batsman again. Then he studied that youth thoughtfully for several seconds before he began to wrap his fingers about the ball. The batter showed his impatience. He stepped from one foot to the other, leaned across the plate, flourished his bat with short strokes. Sam gave the signal, Tom nodded, threw up his hands, and shot the ball like a streak of greased lightning across the inner corner of the platter.

“Strike!” announced the umpire. The batsman turned angrily.

“What!” he cried. Sam tossed back the ball. On third the runner was dancing and shuffling, running along the base-line with Tom’s wind-up, and scooting back to the bag as the ball was delivered.

Again the signal and again the ball sped forward. But this time it was a slow one that floated lazily to the plate and then erratically settled down and under the swinging bat.

“Strike two!” said the umpire.

The batsman could not dispute that. He only growled and glared ferociously at Tom. The latter could afford to waste one and so he answered Sam’s signal with an in-shoot that was refused and went as a ball. It was two and two now. The stands were almost silent as Tom wound up for his next delivery. Very deliberately he went at it and when, finally, his hand shot forward it hardly seemed that there could be any “steam” on the ball. And yet I doubt if few persons saw it after it left Tom’s hand. Certainly the batsman didn’t. One could discern his brief instant of indecision before he swung his bat around with every ounce of strength behind it. He spun on his heel, staggered, and recovered as the umpire cried:

“Striker’s out!”

Amesville burst into joyful acclaim and on the bench Mr. George, with a pleased smile and a satisfied sigh, leaned back again.

“Two gone!” cried Frank Warner cheerfully. “Last man, fellows!”

The next batsman, who was Petersburg’s left fielder, showed none of the nervous impatience of the previous player. He stood square to the plate, crowded a little, and looked at Tom steadily as he poised his bat. Sam Craig, as he squatted to give his signal, glanced down the base-line toward where the runner on third was pawing the earth a few feet from the bag, ready on the instant to race for the plate. Tom’s glance followed Sam’s for an instant as he wrapped his fingers about the ball. That runner on third was disquieting. Even, though, Tom comforted himself, if he did steal home the score would still be 3 to 2. It would be best to give all his attention to the batsman and not allow that dancing, shouting figure over there to take his mind from the real task, which was to strike out the man at the plate.

A ball was called and then a strike, Tom risking a “knuckler” with good results. Then there was a brief instant of panic when the next delivery went wild and bounded into the earth at the right of the plate. But Sam dropped in front of it and saved a run then and there. There was a warning note in his voice as he sped the ball back.

“Take your time, Tom! Now, right over with it!”

Tom frowned as the ball slapped back into his glove. He had allowed that fellow on third to take his mind from the ball at the moment of delivery. He must stop that or something would happen. Very resolutely then he strove to close his ears to the “Hi! hi! hi!” of the coacher’s voice and his eyes to the figure that leaped back and forth along the base-line there. And he succeeded, for his next ball broke sharply out and down and the bat passed over it with a vicious swish and the umpire announced “Strike two!”

It was two and two now. Sam did not intend that Tom should waste any, for he signalled for a low one outside. And Tom pulled at his visor, hitched up his trousers, glanced idly about the bases, and fingered the ball. Then back went his arms behind his head, up came his foot, and——

“There he goes!” shrieked a dozen voices. A babel of warning shouts burst on the air. Half-way between third and home the runner, head down and legs twinkling, was eating up the space. At the plate Sam Craig with outstretched hands begged for the ball!

Tom was in the middle of his wind-up when the warning reached him and it seemed to him afterward that in one brief atom of time he did more thinking than could ordinarily be crowded into the space of a full minute. His startled glance showed him that if he was to head off the runner he must get the ball to the catcher like a streak. But, he reasoned, if he pitched hurriedly he might pitch wildly, and a passed ball meant not only that run but another one besides, for the man at second was already streaking to third. Even if a run crossed the plate the score would still be 3 to 2 in Amesville’s favour. All this passed through Tom’s mind in a twinkling, in such a period of time, perhaps, as allowed the flying runner to twice set foot to ground. And not for even so brief a time had Tom paused in his delivery. What indecision there was was of his mind only, for his muscles went through their routine smoothly, his body lunged forward, his arm shot out, and away shot the ball.

But Sam never got that throw, and the runner from third, with a frantic slide, scored undisputed. For Tom, instead of pitching to the plate, had stepped out of the box and hurled the ball to Bert Meyers at third. It went hard and straight, and Bert, although he was not expecting it, was ready for it when it came to him breast-high. The ball slammed into his glove, he stepped one stride along the path, and the runner from second, seeing his danger too late to stop and double back, dived for the bag. But down came Bert’s arm and it was all over!

On to the diamond flooded the triumphant partisans of the Brown-and-Blue. Cheers filled the air. Tom, struggling in vain, was heaved to the shoulders of two joy-maddened youths and held there by others. Surprised and breathless, clutching for support, he looked down over the heads of the laughing, shouting crowd that surged across the field. The other players had been captured, or most of them at least, for Tom saw them here and there above the crowd. Frank Warner, grinning, came swaying by on the shoulders of a pushing trio.

“Bully work, Pollock!” he shouted.

Then Tom’s bearers fell in behind and in a moment there was a procession of captured players swaying here and there around the diamond. Tom caught sight of Mr. Cummings, red-faced, shouting unintelligibly; of Mr. George, a wide smile on his face; and of May Warner, standing straight and exultant at the front of the stand and waving a brown-and-blue banner. As Tom passed she caught his eye and waved more wildly than ever. And Tom found himself actually smiling at her!

And then, a little farther on toward the gate, his bearers were crowded close to the edge of the stand and his gaze, passing a trifle shamefacedly over the faces that lined it, fell on the laughing countenance of Mrs. Morris. She clapped her hands as she saw him, and then:

“Tom! Tom!” she called across. “Do be careful of your hair!”

And Tom, laughing and blushing a little, put up an unsteady hand and discovered himself bare-headed. He had lost his cap! Not that it mattered, however. Nothing did matter. Amesville had won!

THE END