And now Locke realized that the thing which had hitherto been in his favor was going to work the other way. If he knew intimately the likes and dislikes, the batting strength and weakness of each member of the opposing team, the man who faced him now was in a position to know quite as much, or more, about himself. Lefty’s face was a shade less brown as he toed the rubber, but his nerves were quite steady, his courage unabated. He would do his best; no man could do more. The cheering and comments in the stands had ceased. Even the murmur of voices died away as the spectators bent forward in breathless suspense. The first one was not over, and Fargo refused to go after it. “Ba-a-ll!” drawled the umpire. “He’ll put it over now,” thought Fargo, swinging his stick gently. He had ceased to think of Lefty as his friend; he was now simply the pitcher of the rival team. He was mistaken, however. Though it seemed to be Locke’s intention to cut the pan, Fargo saw the ball break for a curve which would carry it just outside, and again he refrained from swinging. “Two-oo!” said the umpire. In the silence of the breathless crowd some one was heard to say: “He’s afraid of him. He don’t dare let him hit it.” These words did not reach the southpaw’s ears. The latter, however, had no intention of pitching himself into a hole if he could help it. He bent over a sizzler. Fargo swung and missed, although he almost fancied that he felt the bat lightly touch the whistling ball. A murmur rose from the Blue Stockings’ rooters. A moment later, Lefty shot the ball back with a quick return, and, though he was not taken off his guard, the batter missed again. The murmur rose. Then Locke tried that slow, lingering ball which he could so cleverly deliver after going through movements which seemed to promise great speed. Unfortunately Fargo had seen him try that same trick more than once, and he refused to be fooled. Watching the horsehide as it came up and dropped toward the ground, he let it settle into the catcher’s hands without having moved his stick. The Hornets’ fans had a chance to yell, but their uproar was swiftly cut short. Now was the moment of greatest suspense. The next ball delivered would be decisive. After what seemed an eternity, but which was, in reality, the briefest sort of pause, the southpaw pitched. Fargo met the sphere on the trademark and sent it humming out on a line with the speed of a bullet. CHAPTER XLII THE TRUTH AT LAST Like a flash, thousands of fans were on their feet. The roar which reverberated back and forth in the great inclosure was enough to shake the row of eagles ornamenting the roof of the grandstand. Hagin was off like a rocket. Siegrist was not far behind. Fargo himself showed that backstopping was not his only strong point.