There was but a momentary hesitation. Bill Hagin was at bat, and Lefty had played too many practice games against the capable outfielder not to know pretty well his strong and weak points. Unfortunately the latter were few. The southpaw was satisfied, however, when he finally got Nelson’s belated signal. A slow floater was what he handed up for a starter. Hagin, doting on speed, could not restrain himself, and struck too soon. Lefty then tried a curve. The batter swung at it, making connections and bumping a slow grounder towards short. Eddie Lewis made the mistake of waiting for the ball, and was then forced to throw hastily in order to get it across the diamond in time. That hasty throw was wide, and Spider Grant had to leap off the cushion. Hagin was safe because of bad judgment and an error. The crowd cheered, and urged Dutch Siegrist to carry on the good work. The first baseman of the Hornets took no chances. In spite of Lefty’s efforts to prevent it, he managed to lay down a bunt which corkscrewed along the base line, ever threatening to roll foul, but in the end coming to rest a couple of inches on the right side. Locke snatched it up and lined it to Grant, but the delay had made it possible for the German to reach the sack in safety. Jim Brennan smiled significantly. He had watched Locke closely and expectantly, waiting for signs of the yellow streak to show. With two men on bases and none out, it looked very much as if the southpaw’s first inning would be his last. “We’ve got him going,” the manager of the Hornets muttered jubilantly. “Ken’ll have to yank him sudden. I reckon he’ll have more faith in my judgment after this.” When Nolan, his left fielder, presently sent a foul back of first and was put out by Grant’s wonderful sprinting and equally amazing catch, Brennan’s conviction was in no wise altered. This was pure luck, helped on by the skill of the first baseman, and reflected no credit on Locke. Buck Fargo was advancing to the plate, too, which boded well for the Hornets. “You know what to do, Buck,” the manager said, in a low tone, as the backstop passed him. “We’ve got this green portsider on the run already.” It was a curious situation. The two men facing each other were friends. Fargo’s sympathy for the young pitcher was such that he wanted him to make good almost more than he desired a victory for his own team. The big backstop could help very materially, if he wished, without any risk to himself; and he realized that this was a crucial moment in the inning when a hit might mean a run, while an out would go far toward killing the Hornet’s chances for scoring. To his honor, he walked to the pan with the fixed determination to forget that Lefty was pitching, and to give his manager the very best that was in him.