“Yes,” chimed in Tom Burley, at short; “this isn’t croquet. Wake up.” “Let’s have a little of that smoke you had up your sleeve the other day,” added the third baseman. Lefty made no reply to these remarks. He was watching Brennan’s face as the manager left the plate to take up his position behind the pitcher. Brennan looked anything but pleased, and, though he made no remark, Locke fancied he knew what was passing through his mind. The next batter drew two balls in succession, and then created a momentary respite for Lefty by flying out to center field. His successor, however, smashed the first pitched ball over the infield, and romped down the line amid a howl of delight from the regulars, whose interest in the game was warming up. Instantly a gatling fire of sarcasm was turned on Lefty by his teammates. Ogan raced into the diamond and caught the pitcher’s arm. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed fiercely. “Are you trying to throw the game away?” Lefty shook his head. His face was white now, his eye desperate. He knew he was making a miserable exhibition. He should not have started; he should have gone to Ogan before the game and told him he wasn’t in fit condition to pitch. His head was splitting so that he could scarcely see. He seemed to have no strength left in his arm. “Perhaps you’d better take me out, Al,” he muttered. “I seem to be on the fritz.” “You bet you are!” retorted the captain hotly. Then, catching a glimpse of Lefty’s wretched face, he hesitated an instant. “I’ll give you one more chance, Locke,” he went on shortly. “If you don’t make good, out you go. I’m not going to have this game handed over on a silver tray if I can help it. You’ve got the goods, Locke; brace up and hand ’em out.” When Ogan had gone back to his position, Lefty turned and glanced at the plate. His heart sank when he saw that Buck Fargo stood there, swinging his bat negligently. Nevertheless, with set teeth, the southpaw toed the rubber and pitched. It was a straight, high ball that cut the plate in half, and Brennan’s voice droned out “Strike!” as the batter let it pass. Lefty was heartened, and, at a signal from Whalen, he tried an outcurve. As before, this curved too far out even to cut a corner. Another ball followed, and then another strike. Then Fargo swung above a drop ball, and was declared out. As the big backstop tossed his bat aside and strolled, grinning, to the bench, there was a sigh of relief from the Yannigan infield. Perhaps their pitcher was taking an almost-despaired-of brace. One or two gave voice to brief words of commendation; but Lefty did not hear them. He was staring after Fargo in a puzzled way. No one knew better than he――unless it was Andy Whalen――how far those deliveries had fallen short of his usual form. He could not understand why Buck had failed to make connections.