“You’re next, Babe!” called the manager as Bud Thomas went to the plate. Ginger’s heart stood still for an instant and then raced very hard. He was pawing over the bats as Babe arose. “Give us the old bridge timber, son,” said Babe cheerfully, “and rub the lucky dime!” Ginger raised a pale countenance on which the freckles stood out with strange prominence. “It――it ain’t here, Babe,” he answered, his voice a little husky in spite of his effort to make it sound natural. “Where is it, then?” demanded Babe, his gaze searching the ground. “What have you done with it, son?” He looked to see if by some strange chance Bud had chosen it, but Bud hadn’t. Ginger was searching behind the long bench, and under it, and around the water bucket. Others joined the search. Captain Hal bent a curious look on Ginger, which Ginger met and quickly avoided. It was Manager Naylor who suggested a solution. “Maybe it got mixed up with their bats,” said Bert, nodding across the diamond toward the enemy headquarters. “Run over and see, Ginger.” And Ginger very gladly went. But it wasn’t there, and he returned breathlessly to Babe and told him so. And just at that moment Bud leaned against one of Cross’s curves and the ball made a gray streak across the infield between second and third bases. Shortstop made a dive at it and knocked it down, but it was third baseman who pegged it to first a long instant after Bud had shot across the sack. Holman’s took heart and cheered and shouted, and joy reigned in all patriotic breasts save that of Babe Linder. Babe was in despair. From the umpire at the plate came the sharp admonishment “Come on! Batter up!” Babe gave a last yearning look at the array of bats spread before him and dazedly accepted the one that Ginger held forth. “Babe,” said Ginger earnestly, “don’t swing too hard, will you? This bat’s got a lot of pep to it. Just meet ’em sharp like, Babe. Do you get me? You ain’t going to miss that other bat, honest! You――” Babe looking down read something in Ginger’s face that made him stop on his way to the plate. “Oh,” he said softly, “so that’s it!” He was smiling, but it was a grim, tight sort of smile and Ginger’s heart sank. “This is your doings, eh? All right, Ginger, but when this game’s done I’m going to find you, and I’m going to――” “Say!” interrupted the umpire wrathfully, “I’ll give you just ten seconds to get in the box! What do you think this is, a cricket game?” Babe went on, parting from Ginger with one last long, meaningful look, and took his place beside the rubber. He was exceedingly angry as he set his feet well apart and squared himself to the plate. The ridiculous thing in his hands had no weight, no substance, as he swung it back and waited. He felt helpless, as helpless as Hercules himself might have felt if some one had stolen his good old club and substituted a willow wand! “Lose your bat?” inquired the Munson catcher affably as he straightened up after giving his signal.