The next ball McCarthy fouled against the stands for a second strike. A great dread came over him as he heard the roar of the crowd. He turned to watch the Blue's catcher recover the ball, and at that instant he saw the face of Betty Tabor, strained, white, beseeching, as the girl, still mud-splattered and stained from the long race, leaned forward. Her face revealed all the hopes and fears that surged within her. As McCarthy's heart leaped with grim resolve he saw another face that caused him to step back out of the batter's box and, while pretending to rub dirt upon his hands, to glance again. James Lawrence, his uncle and guardian, was sitting in the box next to that in which Betty Tabor was voicelessly beseeching him to win the game. "Hit it, Larry--hit it!" The sound of the name called by the familiar voice, the sight of the agony in the girl's face, spurred him to desperation. He delayed, wiped his hands carefully, stepped into position and waited. Wiley wound up. A fast curve flashed toward the plate. McCarthy took one step forward, snapped his bat against the ball. The Blues' third baseman leaped wildly, stuck up one hand, the ball went on, struck two feet inside the foul line, and before it ceased rolling around the stands two runs were across the plate. McCarthy was on third, and the Bears were in the lead. The inning ended with McCarthy still on third, and the score 3 to 2 in favor of the Bears. Wilcox, who had been kept warmed up during the entire game, ready to rush to the slab if Williams weakened, went in to pitch and held the Blues in the eighth, and in their ninth the Bears drew a blank.