The roar which went up fairly shook the stands, and testified to a sudden slackening of the tension which had been gripping thousands of loyal fans for the past few minutes. Jack Stillman leaned back in his seat and reached for his cigarette case.

“Pretty smooth,” he said, proffering the case to his companions. “That’s what I call pitching out of a hole, and Phil can sure do it to beat the cars.”

“Phil?” queried the cub reporter quickly. “Oh, you mean Locke. I keep forgetting that isn’t his real name.”

“So do I, to tell the truth,” returned Stillman, drawing in a lungful of smoke. “He took it on account of his father’s prejudice against baseball when he started pitching in the bush last year. When I ran into him this spring in the Hornets’ training camp it was hard as the mischief at first to get used to hearing him called anything but Hazelton. I got over that mighty quick, though, and now it’s just the other way. Well,” he went on, glancing at Eckstein, “if this doesn’t stir the boys up enough to make them hammer out at least one run, they’re not the crowd I take them for.”

From the way things started, it looked very much as if the newspaper man had gauged the Blue Stockings correctly. After having two strikes called, Dirk Nelson reached for one of Donovan’s wide slants, and caught it on the end of his bat for a nice single. The crowd roared, the coachers chattered, and Jack Daly pranced to the plate with every apparent intention of carrying on the good work.

Unfortunately for him, the Specter twirler was not quite ready for the stable. Coolly, and with the consummate skill for which he was famous, he lured Daly into swinging at a deceptive bender, fooled him with a wonderful inshoot, and then, when the batter, grown wary, refused to bite at the doubtful ones, Donovan wound himself up and sent over a curve which cut the heart of the plate.

With two and three called, Daly swung, with all his might. There was a sharp crack, and the ball sailed high in the air, foul back of third base. Dillingham jerked off his mask, and started for it, but Red Callahan’s spikes were already drumming the turf as he raced to get under it. Heedless of the shrill taunts and yells with which the fans sought to make him fumble, he fairly flew over the ground. He made the catch while stretching himself to the utmost, and Daly, flinging down his stick with a muttered exclamation of disgust, slouched toward the bench.

“Never mind that!” cried Grant optimistically. “Only one down, boys. Now, Lefty, old man, get into him! We need a hit. Get off, Dirk! Get going! Drift away from that sack, man! On your toes, now!”

During Daly’s turn at bat Nelson had stolen second, beating the catcher’s throw by a hair, and now he pranced off the hassock, taking every bit of lead he dared. Twice Kenyon darted behind him, compelling the runner to dive back to the cushion, but each time he was up and off again the instant the ball was returned to Donovan.

Lefty stepped up to the plate and stood swinging his bat gently back and forth. The shouts of the excited fans seemed faint and far away. In reality he heard them clearly, and was young enough to be stimulated a little by this evidence of faith in his ability. But he showed nothing of this. His mind was occupied solely in trying to fathom what Donovan would be likely to hand him.

The first was an outcurve, and he let it pass. The second was high; evidently Donovan was trying to prevent a bunt. The third also seemed high at first, but Lefty’s quick eyes saw it begin to drop as it neared the plate, and he swung at it.

In spite of his swiftness, however, he was a fraction of a second too late. The ball hit his bat glancingly and caromed at right angles. It struck Locke’s head with force sufficient to make him stagger backward, the stick slipping out of his relaxed fingers.

A sharp, hissing intake of concern swept over the crowded stands. As Lefty reeled, catcher and umpire both leaped forward with outstretched arms; but their aid was unnecessary. The southpaw was conscious of a single brief instant of blackness, which passed like a lightning flash, leaving him a bit dizzy, but otherwise quite himself.

“I’m all right, Spider,” he said quickly, as the Blue Stocking captain rushed up and slipped an arm about him. “It was only a glancing tap.”

“Are you sure?” persisted Grant anxiously. “Hadn’t you better lay off, and let me run someone else in to bat for you?”

Lefty laughed aloud, and took his stick from Dillingham. “Not on your life!” he retorted emphatically. “Think I’m going to quit now?”

As if to prove that the accident amounted to nothing, he shook off the captain’s detaining hand, stepping quickly back to the rubber. The fans shouted their relief and their appreciation of Lefty’s nerve. Donovan’s face wore a slightly strained look. Though no stretching of the imagination could have laid a shred of blame upon his shoulders, the hitting of a batter often disturbs a pitcher’s nerve. This may have had some effect on his next delivery, or may not. At all events, when Locke swung at the ball in fine shape, there was a sharp, clean crack, and the horsehide went humming into the outfield midway between Aldrich and Schwartz.

With a concerted roar, which eclipsed every sound that had gone before, the great mass of people crowding the stands leaped to their feet, and followed with straining eyes the progress of the tiny sphere of white. Away it sped to the right of deep center, both fielders racing like mad to get under it.

Having a big lead to start with, Nelson was off like a streak of light for third. He had crossed the base, and was being urged on down the home stretch before Schwartz snatched up the horsehide, whirled, and sent it whizzing straight toward the plate, with that wonderful sweep of his powerful arm for which he was famous.

It was a perfect throw. For a second or two thousands of hearts stood still, fearing it would be successful. Locke’s brain and muscle had done its work well, however. An instant before the ball plunked into the catcher’s waiting mitt Nelson flung himself across the rubber in a cloud of dust, and the umpire shouted:

“Safe!”