But Tom came back with a slow ball that the batsman struck at too soon and fouled into the stand. Again Tom made the same offering and again the batter was fooled. “Two-and-two, Tom!” said Sam, pawing the dust between his knees before he laid three fingers against his glove. “Only one more now! Cut loose, old man! Show ’em what you have!” But the signal didn’t call for any miracles, merely for an in-shoot, and third baseman crept in an inch or two and poised on his toes. And then away travelled the ball, the bat swung harmlessly, Sam put up a big mitt, and Mr. George shouted, “He’s out!” Mr. Hall’s sigh of relief was audible the length of the bench in spite of the deafening plaudits of the crowd beyond, amongst whom none clapped his hands more vigourously than a late arrival, who had just squeezed himself into a seat in the front row, and who now, in order to give vent to his satisfaction, had let his cane slip away from between his knees and had dropped the grey gloves he carried. Then while the runners on bases, seeing their opportunity fade away, shouted and leaped and scuttled back and forth, daring a throw, the Lynton centre fielder came up, anxious-eyed under a show of assurance. And Tom pitched, a slow ball that seemed of two minds about ever reaching the plate. And the batsman, eager, intense, leaned forward, swung desperately, and the sound of bat and ball meeting rang out. Cries--commands--warnings! First baseman speeding up, Sam whipping off his mask, Tom, with upraised hand, walking toward the plate, head back! “_Tom! Tom!_” shouted first baseman, slowing down. “Take it!” gasped Sam, dodging aside. High up against the blue of the sky the ball floated, a brown speck, and then, momentarily growing larger, down it rushed. From the enemy came conflicting shouts of “Catcher’s ball!” “First baseman’s got it!” “Drop it! Drop it!” “Can’t get it, Pollock, can’t get it!” And then, standing astride the plate, the batsman grudgingly backing away, Tom poised himself, hands waiting. A step to the left at the last moment and there followed the comforting thud of ball against glove and the crisp voice of Mr. George, “Foul! He’s out!” The audience shouted loudly, applaudingly, relieving their suspense. The men on bases strode away to their places, picking up their gloves and showing disappointment in every action. The cheering died away and the Blues went to bat. One run was needed to tie, but that one run looked very far away. Smith, the only one of the men left on bases who had appeared to accept the result philosophically--it was doubtless all in the day’s work to him--now pulled his glove on again, swept up the ball from the dirt and faced the batsman. Comparative silence reigned as the Lynton catcher crouched and laid fingers against mitt. Smith nodded imperceptibly and started his wind-up. And at that moment a polite inquiry came from the edge of the grandstand: “Why did Shreveport let you go, Nick?”