“Yes,” growled Babe morosely. “Some murdering thief――” But there wasn’t time for more, because a grayish-white object came speeding toward him. Babe kept his eyes on it until it became a blur to his vision, but made no offer at it. It was much too low; way under his knees, and―― “_Stuh-rike!_” intoned the umpire. Babe turned upon him indignantly. “_What?_” he demanded, outraged. There was no reply beyond a baleful glance from the cold gray eyes of the official. Babe grunted, waved that useless weapon twice across the plate and grimly set himself again. From the bench came encouraging advice. “Make him pitch to you, Babe!” “It only takes one, old son!” “Let’s have it, Babe! You’re better than he is!” A palpable ball went past, but Babe breathed easier when the umpire called it by its right name. Cross pegged twice to first, where Bud was taking long chances on the path to second, got no results and again gave his attention to Babe. Then the signal came and Babe’s big fingers clutched more tightly about the inadequate handle of the toy weapon. The ball sped toward him and Bud started, hot foot, for second. Babe swung, putting all his force of weight and muscle into action. The infield was shouting loudly as Babe’s bat, meeting no opposition, swung right on around, taking Babe with it. Then the Munson catcher stepped forward and threw, straight and true but high, to shortstop. Ball and Bud reached the bag at the same instant, but Bud was saved by the fraction of time required by the shortstop to bring the ball from above his head to the level of his shoe tops. Holman’s cheered, Bud arose carefully and patted a cloud of dust from his togs and Cross viewed the runner venomously ere he stepped back into the box. Two strikes and one ball, reflected Babe. He had forgotten to allow for the difference in the weight of his bat that time and had swung too soon. It had been a good ball, if a trifle lower than Babe liked them, and he would have got it if he hadn’t been too quick. But what could you do with a matchstick, anyway? What was it Ginger had said? “That bat’s got a lot of pep to it. Just meet ’em sharp like.” Drat the red-headed little rascal! Maybe his advice was good, though. Babe guessed it was. Maybe, next time, if he held back a little―― The next time came. Cross had balls to spare, but something whispered to Babe that the long-legged pitcher was eager to end the innings, that he meant to close the incident with his next delivery. Babe had forgotten his anger now. He was the old calm, cool-headed Babe. Something of his accustomed confidence returned as he narrowed his eyes slightly and poised that inadequate bat. Cross stepped forward, his hand shot toward the plate, the ball sped from it, grew bigger, hung for a brief moment in air as though motionless and then was at the plate.