And now came Fargo, the man who knew Locke’s methods better than any other on the team. The southpaw worked him with the utmost care, pitching as he had never pitched before; and then, just as he fancied he had the backstop in a hole, Buck suddenly and unexpectedly bunted, sending the ball rolling slowly toward first. Lefty got the sphere, but secured it in bad position to throw. Without attempting to straighten up, he jerked it past Fargo, who was making the final long strides for the sack. Grant should have caught it, for the throw was good. Perhaps he was too confident. Perhaps there was no excuse at all, for even Big League players make errors of that sort now and then. At all events, he dropped the ball. The spectators fairly made the stands shake with their raucous joy. “Hit it out!” they shrieked. “Smash it on the nose! Here’s where we get two runs and the game!” Pollock did his best, but only succeeded in sending up a high fly into short center which the fielder secured with ease. Then Johnny Burns hurried up, eager to help things along, and confident that he could do it. Lefty felt that the man was positively itching to hit. He could read it in the fellow’s face and manner, and he determined to play upon the batter’s eagerness. A high drop across Burns’ shoulder deceived him, but did not shake his confidence. It was followed by another high ball, which was, however, an inshoot, and again the Hornet fielder missed. “Hit it, Johnny!” pleaded the local fans. “Don’t let him fool you. Smash it out.” “Fan him!” shrieked the Blue Stockings’ supporters wildly, their hopes beginning to rise again. “Fan him, Lefty! You’ve got to do it.” Lefty hesitated a second, his face cool and impenetrable, the muscles of his jaw sharply defined. He felt that the batter would expect him to try a coaxer; for, with no balls called, most pitchers would feel that they could afford to waste one or two. He glanced round, his foot on the slab. When he turned back, he pitched without the slightest preliminary swing, sending over a high, straight, speedy ball. It had been his object to catch Burns unprepared, and he succeeded. The batter struck a second too late, and the ball spanked into Nelson’s glove. “Out!” called the umpire. But the word was not heard because of the deafening roar which rose from the delighted visitors. Lefty was scarcely conscious of the turmoil. It sounded faint and far away, like the beating of breakers on a rocky coast, and mingled insensibly with the words he was saying over and over to himself: “One more! Only one more! I must get him――I’ve got to!” He dared not risk a glance at that upper box. The moment was too tense. And yet in his mind he pictured the girl leaning breathlessly over the railing, her tiny gloved hands clasped rigidly together, her face a little pale, her violet eyes wide open and almost black with excitement. She must not be disappointed――she should not!