“Who? Brad?” asked Zona, who had been watching the clever work of the sturdy backstop from Texas. “No! I mean Hal.” “Oh, yes,” answered Zona. “He is playing a great game to-day. Don’t you think so, June?” “I don’t believe I ever saw him pitch better,” said June. “Pitch?” cried both girls. “Why, he isn’t pitching! He is playing shortstop.” “Oh!” exclaimed June, getting quite red. “I—I mean—I mean I never saw him play better.” But she did not deceive her companions. Both knew who had chained her attention. In the seventh inning, after striking out Conway, the first batter, Dick saw Macon drive a hot grounder through Bradley and make two bags on the cockney youth’s error. Immediately the Fairport rooters rose to their feet. “This is the fatal seventh!” shouted one. “Here’s where we do the trick!” This was followed by the Fairport cheer, and Milliken, the tall left-fielder, managed to connect with one of Dick’s drops, lifting it over the infield. It was a safe hit, but should have carried Macon no farther than third base. Tubbs secured the ball and made a quick throw in an endeavor to nip Macon at third. Bradley was not expecting the throw, and did not see the ball until it was close upon him. He put up his hands, but misjudged it, and it struck his fingers without being stopped. Billy was after the ball in a twinkling, but Macon saw his opening and scudded for the home plate. When Bradley caught the ball he made a desperate effort to shut the run off, but threw low, and on a bad bounce the sphere got past Buckhart. Already Milliken had raced down to second, and now he pranced on to third, amid the wild cheering of the visitors. “Blocked ball! Blocked ball!” was the shout. “Come home, Macon!” The runner had paused at third, and now Buckhart whistled the ball to Dick, who remained in the box. At the same time Brad rushed back to the plate. Milliken fancied he saw his chance to score before Merriwell could return the ball to Buckhart, and he did his best to add another run to the one already obtained. The Texan flew over the ground with giant strides. He got into position behind the bat and received the swift one that Merriwell sent humming into his mitt. Macon threw himself forward in a desperate and beautiful slide for the rubber. At the same moment the stalwart catcher made a headlong dive at the runner and tagged him a moment before his hand reached the plate. Merriwell had made no mistake in permitting Fairport to bring her umpire to Fardale. This fellow knew his business, and he was within eight feet of the plate when Brad tagged the sliding runner. “You’re out!” he shouted. Although the decision was rather close, there was no question about its justness, and the surprising success of this quick work brought a sharp cheer from the relieved cadets. “Splendid work, Brad, old man!” laughed Dick, who had also dashed forward.