When Loring reached the second team diamond, the game was already in its second inning, and the visitors had just annexed their first tally. Clif, however, fifth on the batting list, had still to make his initial trip to the plate, and when, after the enemy had been retired without further scoring, the second began to swing bats, Loring was conscious of a nervous anxiety that evidently communicated itself to Wattles. Wattles was breathing heavily, and, although he maintained his correct attitude throughout the succeeding six innings, there were moments when excitement threatened to upset it. Wattles liked Clif very much, but even if he hadn’t Loring’s attachment for the boy would have been sufficient to assure Wattles’ loyalty. Clif’s first trip to the plate ended in fiasco, for after he had refused a delivery that the umpire called a strike and had allowed two balls to go past him he bit at an in-curve and the sphere dribbled half-way to the pitcher’s box and was sped quickly to first for the second out of the inning. Having retired from a useless effort to reach base ahead of the ball, he came across to where Loring sat, grinning ruefully. “Rotten, wasn’t it?” he asked. “That curve fooled me all right! Got it half-way up my bat. He doesn’t seem very hard, either. Bet you I smash one the next time! What do you say? Drinks at Burger’s!” “You’re on,” said Loring eagerly. “And, listen, Clif, don’t forget the thought business! You know, the old will power. Now’s the chance to use it, old chap.” “Gee, you seem awfully keen about this game! Got any money on it?” Clif laughed and then became puzzled by Loring’s serious countenance. “What’s up?” he asked, scowling. His gaze shot to Wattles’ face. Wattles looked more solemn than ever! “There’s more than money up,” replied Loring gravely. He wished that he might tell Clif just what was up, but he thought it might not be fair. Before Clif could ask the meaning of the cryptic statement he went on, smiling to prove that he hadn’t meant a thing by it. “I want you fellows to win your last game, naturally,” he said. “And I want you to fatten your batting and fielding record, you chump. This is the last chance you’ll get this year, isn’t it?” “Sure is. All right, you watch me. I’ll throw my thought on that pitcher the next time and make him give me what I want! And if he does, just watch it travel!” “I hope it does, Clif! And I hope you’ll hit every time you’re up!” “Thanks for your good wishes,” answered the other carelessly as he sauntered off toward the outfield. “We’ll strive not to disappoint you.” They didn’t, and after Loring was back in his room Wattles set forth for Number 21 West Hall bearing a slip of paper. On it in Loring’s neat writing was this mysterious inscription: “A.B. 4; R. 1; 1B. 2; S.B. 1; S.H. 1; P.O. 2; A. 2; E. 0.”