As he took the ball from Fargo, Lefty’s blood was tingling, and his face flushed. He managed to keep a grip on his temper, however. With the bases full and only one out, coolness was at a premium. CHAPTER XXIX TAKING A BRACE “Sickening!” growled Bert Elgin sitting on the bench. “But what can you expect with a dub like Locke on the slab?” Andy Whalen, a little sore at having been left out of the game, nodded absently. Next instant, however, he turned his eyes from the diamond for a second to glance at his companion. “It isn’t altogether his fault, though,” he said. “It’s no cinch to start in pitching to a perfectly strange lot of batters, and Schaeffer shouldn’t have had that base.” “Don’t you believe it,” snapped Elgin. “If we had a real pitcher――” “A hit!” Whalen cried. “No, it isn’t, either. It’s going straight at Burley.” Springing to his feet, he watched the ball soaring out into left field; saw Tom Burley running back to get under it; held his breath as the white sphere dropped swiftly, apparently straight into the fielder’s hands; and then sank back on the bench with a groan as the fellow muffed miserably. “Butterfingers!” he said bitterly. “Why didn’t you hold it, you chunk of solid ivory!” Cinch Brown trotted easily over the plate, and Kenny, covering the ground with tremendous strides, rounded third, and was urged on by the coacher. Lefty knew the sphere would be relayed. Disappointed by the unexpected muff, it seemed to him as if the ball would never reach the diamond. In reality, Burley, trying to atone for his miserable error, made a swift throw which sent the horsehide straight into the baseman’s hands; and Daly, whirling, lined it to the waiting backstop. “Slide! Slide!” shrieked the spectators. The advice was unnecessary. Kenny had already launched himself, feet forward, at the plate, and so great was his speed that he almost overreached it. He managed to stop himself with one leg across the rubber just as the ball plunked into Fargo’s big mitt, and he was declared safe. Amid the yell of delight which greeted this decision, Locke turned just in time to see Schaeffer streaking toward third. Apparently he hoped to steal the base in the general excitement. Lefty shouted warningly to Fargo, but the big backstop, on the job, had already lined the sphere to Terry Daly. The latter caught it astride the base, but Schaeffer slid feet foremost straight for the sack, and spiked Daly, who dropped the ball. A chorus of protest arose from the Hornets. Schaeffer got up, slapping the dust from his clothes and volubly voicing his regret at the incident. “Too bad,” he said, as Daly limped off the field. “Accidents will happen, you know. He should have watched out for spikes, anyhow.”