There was a slight falter as the ball shot away, and a quick glance toward the stand as the umpire announced, “One ball!” A murmur of amusement arose from the audience. Again came the wind-up and again came the voice, clear and distinct across the diamond: “Hard luck, Nick! Back to the bush, eh?” Off went the ball and again the umpire disapproved, while the pitcher, squaring himself toward the stand, searched the faces there with curious gaze. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t look genuine. He failed to find the speaker, for, although many faces were turned toward a lower corner of the stand, Smith didn’t think to connect the remarks with the smartly-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man of thirty or so, who sat nonchalantly grasping a cane and a pair of grey gloves between his knees. The stand was laughing and exchanging inquiries. Further away the occupants were on foot, trying to get a glimpse of the speaker. “The chap down there in the derby, I think.” “No, the little man with the grey coat; smoking a pipe; see him?” “What did he say, anyhow?” “I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was that pitcher didn’t like it.” “Glad of it! He hasn’t any business playing ball with a lot of boys.” Smith pitched again, and once more, although there had been no disturbing comment, he failed to put the ball over for a strike. Scurrying to their places, the Amesville coachers whooped and shouted. “Good eye, George! Wait for your base!” “You’ve got him now! Here’s where we start, fellows! Wow!” Smith rubbed his hand in the dirt, settled the ball between his fingers and stepped forward. “Strike--one!” called Mr. George. Lynton applauded. Smith got the return and walked back toward his box, and as he went his gaze again sought the stand. Those who saw it laughed. The man with the grey gloves watched imperturbably. Smith got the signal, poised with upraised foot. “What do you get for to-day, Nick?” Away went the ball, bounded against the plate and rolled to the net. The batsman raced to first and Amesville, players and friends, laughed and shouted gleefully. Angrily Smith slapped the ball into his glove as it came back, turned, and threw to first. The baseman, not expecting the throw, tried for it and failed, and as the ball shot past his finger-tips and rolled to the seats the runner dashed for second. He had all the time in the world to make the bag and reached it standing up. Smith, still scowling, got his signals, while from all sides came the howls and shrieks of the Amesville players. He was fair game now, it seemed, and in the stand they were kicking their feet and whistling and shouting across at him. Whether he was really being paid to pitch for Lynton none knew, but all were willing to believe it.