With the opening of the seventh, there was a sudden billowing up of the crowd throughout the entire circle of stands and bleachers. They stretched themselves and stamped their feet until the noise was like the deafening rattle of stage thunder. The visitors, though fearful of defeat, nevertheless raised the stentorian cry of “Lucky seventh! Lucky seventh! Here’s where we do it!” Eddie Lewis, the Blue Stockings’ shortstop, was the first man up. Elgin eyed him critically, and, remembering that he had caught the man with an inshoot once before, decided to repeat the trick. He had been growing more and more cocksure as the game progressed, so, when Fargo called for a straight, fast high ball, Elgin responded with his own views on the subject. It was time, he decided, that he cut loose from the backstop’s apron-strings. He had been hitched to them too long already. Fargo repeated his signal, but Elgin shook his head obstinately. Finally he got the signal he wanted. Lewis stepped swiftly back; there was a ringing crack; the horsehide whizzed straight at Elgin, who――ducked! He had never done such a thing before, but the total unexpectedness of the hit, and the fact that the sphere was humming straight at his head with the speed of a cannon ball, deprived him for a second of reason, and made his act instinctive. Lewis got to first easily. The entire Hornets’ infield made various caustic comments. From the stands the fickle crowd showered insults which brought the color flaming into Elgin’s face and made him drop the ball when he received it from the outfielder. The incident so disturbed him that he proceeded to present Nelson with a free pass, which brought loud cheers from the Blue Stockings’ rooters, and more unflattering comments from the upholders of the home team. “He’s going up! He’s going up!” chanted the visiting fans, grasping at a straw. “Send him to the stable! Put the blanket on him!” Elgin gritted his teeth and faced Jack Daly as he toed the scratch, bland and smiling. Men were yelling advice to the batter; others flinging taunts at the man on the mound. The tumult was increasing steadily. Fargo, catching a glimpse of Elgin’s face, dropped on one knee and deliberately adjusted his shoe-lace. Daly let a wide one pass, and then banged out a grounder which, but for splendid fielding, would have been a hit. As it was, Dirk Nelson, forced from the initial sack, was put out at second by a hair. Daly reached first safely, and Eddie Lewis executed an impromptu jig on third. By this time a perfect pandemonium had broken forth all over the stands. The visiting rooters, seeing hope for the first time, seemed trying to rattle the pitcher, while the fickle metropolitan fans howled at the unfortunate twirler they had been cheering so vociferously a short time before. “Take him out! Take him out!” they bawled. “Russell! We――want――Cy!”