But Joe knew very well that it wouldn’t be like the last at all, that Corrigan would change his pace, and, in all likelihood, put a fast one over in the groove. And that is what happened. And Joe, staking all on his “hunch,” swung and caught it fairly and streaked down the base-path and was waved onward by Toby Williams, who was dancing about in the coacher’s box, and finally pulled up at second, standing, just as the ball came back from right field. Somehow, that unexpected hit changed the luck, it seemed. Cummings got his second hit of the game and sent Joe to third. Tom Pollock was again passed, filling the bases, and Jack Speyer went in to bat for Gordon Smith. Speyer wasn’t any phenomenon with the stick, but he had been known to hit lustily. Perhaps in nine cases out of ten a pinch-hitter proves a broken reed, but this must have been the tenth time, for there was nothing broken about Speyer. Probably the fact that he had not been playing kept him from any awe of Corrigan. At all events, he let the first ball go past unheeded, untroubledly heard it called a strike, and then swung hard on the next one. Second baseman made a heroic try for it, but it went a foot over his upthrust glove and Joe and Walter Cummings trotted over the home plate. That ended the scoring. Sidney Morris hit into third baseman’s hands and was an easy out. Then all that Amesville had to do was to retire Lynton in her half of the twelfth, a feat not at all difficult as it proved. Tom struck out the first man, the second laid down a bunt and beat out the throw to first, and the third batsman hit into a double, Smith to Peddie to Joe, and the game was over, the score 3 to 1. Amesville, cheered and cheering, made a wild dash for the station and got the five-twelve train by a minute’s margin. On the way home Jack tried to sympathise with Frank Foley, but Frank was in a particularly disagreeable frame of mind, and Jack gave him up as a bad job. Instead, huddled in a seat with Joe, hugging his knees ecstatically, he spoke of that bat-case with the air of a proprietor. “I’m two games ahead of him, Joey,” he exulted. “He will have to play in two more than I do now to win, and he will never do it! Not this year! You’ve cabbaged that place for keeps, Joey. Why, even if you dropped half the throws you got, Bat couldn’t do without you! Not after the way you lambasted that old pill today, son! It’s a cinch!” “You can’t tell,” began Joe. But Jack would have nothing to do with doubts. “Piffle! It’s all over with Handsome Frank, I tell you. You win!” Jack was silent a moment. Then he laughed rather queerly, and, in answer to Joe’s questioning look, said: “It’s funny, but, do you know, I’m sort of sorry for Frank! Isn’t that silly?” “So am I,” replied Joe truthfully. “Well!” Jack took a deep breath and abandoned regrets. “To the victor belong the spoils, as the poet so beautifully puts it! And it’s been a pretty little fight!”