For a moment as he faced the head of the enemy's batting order, and realized all that depended on him, his head grew dizzy. The immense throng of faces swam before his eyes and Dick's "Now, Bert, eat them up," seemed to come from a mile away. The next instant his brain cleared. He took a grip on himself. The crowd no longer wavered before his eyes. He was as cold and hard as steel. "Come, Freshie," taunted Ellis, the big first baseman, as he shook his bat, "don't cheat me out of my little three bagger. I'll make it a homer if you don't hurry up." He jumped back as a swift, high one cut the plate right under his neck. "Strike," called the umpire. "Naughty, naughty," said Ellis, but his tone had lost some of its jauntiness. The next was a wide outcurve away from the plate, but Ellis did not "bite," and it went as a ball. Another teaser tempted him and he lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale, who smothered it easily. Hart, who followed, was an easy victim, raising a pop fly to Sterling at second. Gunther, the clean-up hitter of the team, sent a grounder to short that ordinarily would have been a sure out, but, just before reaching White, it took an ugly bound and went out into right. Sterling, who was backing up White, retrieved it quickly, but Gunther reached first in safety. The crowd roared their delight. "Here's where we score," said one to his neighbor. "I knew it was only a matter--Thunder! Look at that." "That" was a lightning snap throw from Bert to Dick that caught Gunther five feet off first. The move had been so sudden and unexpected that Dick had put the ball on him before the crowd fairly realized that it had left the pitcher's hand. It was a capital bit of "inside stuff" that brought the Blues to their feet in tempestuous cheering, as Bert walked in to the bench. "O, I guess our Freshie is bad, all right," shouted one to Ellis, as he walked to his position. "We'll get him yet," retorted the burly fielder. "He'll blow up when his time comes." But the time was long in coming. In the next three innings, only nine men faced him, and four of these "fanned." His "whip" was getting better and better as the game progressed. His heart leaped with the sense of mastery. There was something uncanny in the way the ball obeyed him. It twisted, curved, rose and fell like a thing alive. A hush fell on the crowd. All of them, friend and foe, felt that they were looking at a game that would make baseball history. Ainslee's heart was beating as though it would break through his ribs. Could he keep up that demon pitching? Would the end come with a rush? Was it in human nature for a mere boy before that tremendous crowd to stand the awful strain? He looked the unspoken questions to Reddy, who stared back at him. "He'll do it, Mr. Ainslee, he'll do it. He's got them under his thumb. They can't get to him. That ball fairly talks. He whispers to it and tells it what to do."