“He’s spoiling ’em,” muttered Chick uneasily. But the next moment he was on his feet with every one else on that side of the field, yelling wildly, frantically. Pritchett had one more strike-out to his credit, and three blue-stockinged players turned ruefully from their captured bases and sought their places in the field. The Crimson players came flocking back to the bench, panting and smiling, and threw themselves under the grateful shade of the little strip of awning. “Easy with the water,” cautioned the trainer as the tin cup clattered against the mouth of the big water-bottle. “Who’s up?” asked some one. The coach was studying the score-book silently. Pritchett was up, but Pritchett, like most pitchers, was a poor batsman. The coach’s glance turned and wandered down the farther bench where the substitutes sat. “Eaton up!” he called, and turning to the scorer: “Eaton in place of Pritchett,” he said. The youngster who stood before him awaiting instructions was a rather stockily-built chap, with brown hair and eyes and a merry, good-natured face. But there was something besides good nature on his face at this moment; something besides freckles, too; it was an expression that mingled gratification, anxiety, and determination. Tom Eaton had been a substitute on the varsity nine only since the disbanding of the freshman team, of which he had been captain, and during that scant fortnight he had not succeeded in getting into a game. “You’ve got to get to first, Eaton,” said the coach softly. “Try and get your base on balls; make him think you’re anxious to hit, see? But keep your wits about you and see if you can’t walk. If he gets two strikes on you, why, do the best you can; hit it down toward third. Understand? Once on first I expect you to get around. Take all the risk you want; we’ve got to score.” “Batter up!” called the umpire, impatiently. Eaton selected a bat carefully from the rack and walked out to the plate. The head cheerleader, looking over his shoulder, ready to summon a “short cheer” for the batsman, hesitated and ran across to the bench. “Who’s batting?” he asked. “Eaton,” he was told. “Batting for Pritchett.” “A short cheer for Eaton, fellows, and make it good!” It was good, and as the freshman captain faced the Blue’s pitcher the cheer swept across to him and sent a thrill along his spine. Perhaps he needed it, for there is no denying that he was feeling pretty nervous, although he succeeded in disguising that fact from either catcher or pitcher. Up in the cheering section there was joy among the group of freshmen. “Look who’s here!” shrieked Chick. “It’s Chub!” “Chub Eaton!” cried another. “What do you think of that?” “Batting for Pritchett! Say, can he bat much, Roy?” “Yes; but I don’t know what he can do against this fellow. He hasn’t been in a game since they took him on. But I guess the coach knows he can run the bases. If he gets to first I’ll bet he’ll steal the rest!”