The Blues threatened in their half of the sixth, but failed to make good the threat. A scratch hit put Tom on first and an error spoiled what should have been a double, and the Blues, for the first time, had two men on. But things fizzled out after that. Strikes quickly disposed of the next two batsmen and the third flied out to second baseman with what, aided by a little luck, might easily have been a hit. The stand was shouting for action now. Pitchers’ battles are interesting enough, but the audience wanted hits. It even demanded them from Lynton, and perhaps that encouragement helped to bring about what followed in that first half of the seventh. A stocky Lynton fielder laid his bat cosily against one of Tom’s fast ones and went to first. Tom tried to nail him but failed. The next batsman bunted toward third, and third baseman, running in fast, scooped up the ball neatly and tried for a double. But second baseman was off his bag when the ball got to him and the runner beat him by a matter of inches, and the subsequent peg to first was too late. That, then, was the situation when the hard-hitting Mr. Smith picked out a bat and strolled nonchalantly to the plate. “He ought to pass him,” said Mr. Hall anxiously. Mr. Talbot nodded. “He will.” And he did, to the amusement of the Amesville supporters and the loudly voiced scorn of the Lynton bench. Smith accepted his fate philosophically, tossed his bat aside and walked to first. Mr. Hall sighed. “Here’s where it goes glimmering,” he murmured. “Looks that way,” replied Mr. Talbot. “Bases full and none out. It’s up to Tom to show some of the real stuff now.” “If he’s got enough of it to keep one or two of those chaps from scoring, I’ll take my hat off to him,” was the reply. “Well, you can’t tell. The weak hitters are coming up and there’s always a good chance for a double when the bags are filled. Wouldn’t care to step in there and try your hand, would you?” But Mr. Hall shook his head most decidedly. “No, sir! I’m scared as it is! I’d never find the plate until the bases were cleared!” The Lynton coachers were shrieking themselves hoarse and the runners were jumping and shouting with wild enthusiasm as Sam and Tom met halfway between plate and mound. Sam, ball in hand and an eye on third base, talked a moment, and Tom, a speculative gaze set on Mr. Hall, nodded. Then Sam handed the ball to him and walked cheerfully back to the plate, pulling his mask on, and Tom, hitching his trousers, motioned the fielders in. CHAPTER XXIII A THROW TO SECOND