Amid this turmoil, Lefty Locke approached the pan, his heart pounding unevenly and his face glowing dully under the tan. So far he had shown little ability with the stick; nevertheless, the hopeful Blue Stockings’ adherents greeted him uproariously. “Kill it, Locke!” was the stentorian cry. “Kill it, old boy!” The sound of their voices thrilled the southpaw. Only an abnormally cold-blooded youngster would have felt no thrill. It exalted him and made him confident that he could hit anything Elgin ventured to whip over. There was a momentary pause as Fargo hurried into the diamond and spoke a few reassuring words to the white-faced twirler. While he waited, leaning on his stick, Lefty cast a casual glance along the wide sweep of stands and boxes crowded with yelling, cheering humanity. The next instant his heart stood still. He was staring fixedly at an upper box that was filled with a gay party of men and women. As Lefty gazed with unbelieving wonder, a woman suddenly arose, straight and slim and girlish, her face flushing and her eyes bright. Smiling down at him, she waved a tiny handkerchief. It was Janet Harting! His face crimson, Lefty pulled off his cap a little awkwardly. How she happened to be there he had no idea. Who she was with he did not know――or care. She was watching him pitch his first Big League game, watching his trial by fire, and she believed in him. He toed the slab, believing more than ever in himself. Elgin’s face was still pale and set. A moment before he had caught a glimpse of Brennan talking earnestly with Cy Russell, after which the pitcher peeled off his sweater and loped across the turf, beckoning to the second catcher. It looked as if the end were in sight. Nevertheless, he ground his teeth and scowled fiercely at the hated Locke. He must get him――he must! The words rang dully through the pitcher’s brain until he wondered whether he was speaking them aloud. He paused, looking beseechingly at Fargo, who repeated the signal. Reluctantly Elgin wound up and pitched. The southpaw’s bat met the horsehide with a smash that sent it flying over Nolan’s head toward the left field bleachers. With a mingled cry of anguish and joy, the spectators leaped to their feet and followed the progress of the flying sphere with straining eyes. For a moment it looked as if the fielder might get it by fast sprinting, and Lewis halted an instant on third, head twisted, gauging the rapidly falling dot of white. Then it was seen that Nolan must fail to make the catch, and the runner was sent home with a rush, while voices accelerated Daly’s flying progress from first. The latter rounded second without a pause just as the fielder made a beautiful recovery and lined the ball to third. There were frantic shrieks of “Slide! slide!” which Daly obeyed without hesitation, skimming over the ground amid a cloud of dust, to hook the hassock with his foot as the sphere smacked into Monte Harris’ mitt.