Amesville’s batting order was as follows: Smith, s.; Morris, cf.; Strobe, lf.; Hale, 3b.; Peddie, 2b.; Faulkner, 1b.; Cummings, rf.; Craig, c.; Pollock, p. Toby Williams hoped to get into the game before the curtain fell on the afternoon’s performance, and probably Carl Moran entertained a similar hope, but it was pretty certain that Tom would remain on the mound as long as the opponent showed its teeth. On the bench, when the Amesville players trotted out for the opening inning, remained Williams, Moran, Foley, Loomis, Speyer, Johnson, a capable hitter from the disbanded Scrubs, and Buster Healey. Buster was not in playing togs, however, and he viewed the world from behind a pair of horn spectacles with thick lenses that gave him the appearance of a wise owl. Manager Mifflin was there, too, with his battered score-book spread open on his knees, and so was Coach Talbot, in low-voiced conversation with Mr. John Hall, a privileged well-wisher of the team. At half-past two to the second Mr. Reardon, the imported umpire, faced the stands in “big-league” fashion and announced the batteries in a voice that carried easily to the outfield fence: “Batthery for Amesville, Pollock and Craig! For Petthersburg, Calvert and Beale. _Batther up!_” CHAPTER XXIV BUNCHED HITS “First man, Tom!” Sam Craig pulled his mask down, looked over the field and then knelt behind the plate. Tom, his arms at his sides, watched, nodded, himself turned and viewed the fielders, and pulled his cap down a bit further over his eyes. “Come on, Tom! Let’s have him!” called Gordon Smith. “Here we go!” cried Hale. Tom’s hands came up to his chest, his foot went forward, cunning fingers wrapped themselves around the clean, new ball. At the plate Wiley, third baseman, squared himself and tentatively swung his bat. Behind him Captain Craig placed his feet apart and with slightly bent knees and out-thrust hands waited. Behind the third base line the visitors were still cheering and two noisy youths were encouraging the batsman from the coachers’ boxes. Tom’s arms went back above his head, his body lurched forward, his right hand shot out and a white streak sped away for the plate. A yellowish flash as the bat swept the air, the thud of ball against leather mitt, and the stentorian voice of the umpire: “Shtrike!” Amesville cheered, while a chorus of approval arose from the fielders, and Sam, thumping the ball into the deep hollow of his big mitten, cried to Tom: “That’s the stuff, Tom! Keep after him!”