In the first of the sixth inning Sam’s team started off with a rush. Young Fairchild dribbled a weak bunt along third-base line and the throw to first went wild. The runner scurried to second and then, coached frantically to go on, made an apparently hopeless attempt to reach third. But another wild heave saved him. Third baseman blocked the ball, but not in time to make the out, and Terry Fairchild, immensely proud of his feat, sat on the bag and tried to recover his breath and made derisive remarks to the baseman. Sam instructed the next batter, Pete Simpson, to try to bunt, hoping that the ball would be played to the plate and that Pete would get his base. Naturally, the runner on third was not supposed to go home unless the way was clear, for there were no outs. Pete had a strike and two balls called on him before he found anything he thought he could use to advantage. Then he struck loosely against a high ball and by good luck sent it rolling along the first-base path. Pete raced for first and Pitcher Porter raced for the ball. And, contrary to instructions from the third-base coach, young Fairchild, doubtless desiring to still further glorify himself, sprinted for home. He had about one chance in twenty of reaching it safely, for Porter scooped up the ball on the run, turned swiftly, and threw to the plate. And Jimmy Benson, astride the platter, caught it waist-high, and everything should have been lovely for the Indians. But Terry Fairchild, sprawling on his back, with both legs kicking in the air, arrived a fraction of a second after the ball and, since Benson was in the way, Terry just naturally collided with him, knocked his feet from under him, and went by. Unfortunately, the shock was so disturbing to the catcher that he inadvertently loosed his hold on the ball and the ball followed Terry into the dust. And Steve Brown, who had already motioned the runner out, reversed his decision, and Peter Simpson slid to second. Jimmy Benson was disgruntled, even angry, and said unkind things to Terry. But Terry, picking himself up with a swagger and patting the dust from his scant costume, only grinned exasperatingly and walked to the bench, there to be hilariously patted and hugged by his team-mates. When, however, he glanced toward Sam, expecting praise, he got a surprise. “Don’t do that again, Fairchild,” said the junior councillor severely. “Mind what the coach tells you. You made it, but you had no business making it, and if Benson hadn’t dropped the ball you’d have looked pretty cheap. You take your orders from the coach, Fairchild, after this.”