Toby came back, hot and perspiring, from his jaunt, with the recovered ball in his hand, and proceeded to wreak vengeance on Hale. The fellows at the net still guyed him, however, and Hale speedily found a hit. When Buster’s turn came again he asked: “Will you field it, Toby, if I get to you inside of three?” But Toby had had enough and shook his head, which proved fortunate in the light of succeeding events. Buster, after fouling two, sent a long fly arching out. When Joe stepped in front of the net Toby waved a hand in sarcastic greeting. “Hit ’em as hard as you like, Faulkner,” he called. “All bets are off!” Nevertheless, it was soon evident to Joe and the others that Toby didn’t intend his offerings to be hit hard, for he used all his skill, “mixing them up” bewilderingly. One went as a ball, the next was a foul-tip, the third was a doubtful strike, the fourth was another foul. Joe was matching his skill against the pitcher’s, and for the first time he was confident of the result. He let a second strike go past because, although he was certain he could have taken it, it was too low to hit any distance. Again he fouled, going after the ball just as he had been doing down in the schoolhouse basement, and still again. Toby showed impatience. “Oh, hit one, Faulkner! I’m giving ’em to you soft!” “Yes, you are!” jeered Buster, behind the improvised plate. “You’re putting everything you’ve got on them! I dare you to put one in the groove, Toby!” Toby took the dare, launching a straight, fast ball to the net that looked like a white streak. But Joe glued his eyes to it, swung short but from the shoulders, and there was a fine, resounding _crack_! Toby turned slowly and watched the ball streak far into the field. Then he held up both hands and grinned at Joe. “You win!” he said.