"You bet we won't," laughed Dick, "just watch our smoke." The presence of the coach was an inspiration, and they went on for their fifteen minutes' practise with a vim and snap that sobered up the over-confident rooters on the other side. Their playing fairly sparkled, and some of the things put across made the spectators catch their breath. Just in front of the grandstand, Bert and Winters tried out their pitching arms. Commencing slowly, they gradually increased their pace, until they were shooting them over with railroad speed. The trainer and manager, reinforced by Mr. Ainslee, carefully watched every ball thrown, so as to get a line on the comparative speed and control. While they intended to use Bert, other things being equal, nobody knew better than they that a baseball pitcher is as variable as a finely strung race horse. One day he is invincible and has "everything" on the ball; the next, a village nine might knock him all over the lot. But to-day seemed certainly Bert's day. He had "speed to burn." His curves were breaking sharply enough to suit even Ainslee's critical eye, and while Winters also was in fine fettle, his control was none too good. Hinsdale was called into the conference. "How about it, Hin?" asked Ainslee. "How do they feel when they come into the glove?" "Simply great," replied the catcher, "they almost knock me over, and his change of pace is perfect." "That settles it," said Ainslee, and the others acquiesced. So that when at last the starting gong rang and a breathless silence fell over the field, as Tom strode to the plate, Bert thrilled with the knowledge that he had been selected to carry the "pitching burden," and that upon him, more than any other member of the team, rested that day's defeat or victory. The lanky, left-handed pitcher wound up deliberately and shot one over the plate. Tom didn't move an eyelash. "Strike one!" called the umpire, and the home crowd cheered. The next one was a ball. "Good eye, old man!" yelled Dick from the bench. "You've got him guessing." The next was a strike, and then two balls followed in rapid succession. The pitcher measured the distance carefully, and sent one right over the center of the rubber. Tom fouled it and grinned at the pitcher. A little off his balance, he sent the next one in high, and Tom trotted down to first, amid the wild yells of his college mates. Flynn came next with a pretty sacrifice that put Tom on second. Drake sent a long fly that the center fielder managed to get under. But before he could get set for the throw in, Tom, who had left second the instant the catch was made, slid into third in a cloud of dust just before the ball reached there. "He's got his speed with him to-day," muttered Ainslee, "now if Trent can only bring him home."