As he spoke he caught Locke’s eye, and the latter brought his teeth together with a click. He felt sure that the thing had been done with deliberate intention, and, in the fleeting glance he exchanged with the Bronc twirler, a sudden determination filled him to repay the man in the way it would hurt the most. As he walked slowly back to the slab and stood waiting for Brennan to send out a new man to take Daly’s place, a curious calm descended on him. The outfielder’s error, coming on the heels of all that went before, had brought Lefty to a state of nervousness which would have been fatal had it continued. It did not. In a flash it had vanished, leaving him cooler and more composed than he had been at any time since the game began. His face was so quietly indifferent that more than one player, catching a glimpse of it, frowningly recalled the day he had thrown away that first game to the regulars, and wondered with sinking hearts whether he really was the quitter they had thought him then. “He’s done for,” muttered Elgin on the bench. “They’ve got his goat. He’s given away the game in the first inning.” Andy Whalen made no reply. He was watching Lefty keenly, and something in the southpaw’s face made him doubt if Elgin was right. There was no question of the sudden change which had come over the pitcher, but whether it was for better or worse seemed a question. With furrowed brow, the cub backstop dropped his chin into his hands, and waited. Tony Vegaro, the wiry little Mexican shortstop, was at the bat. Schaeffer jumped away from third as Locke pitched, making a fake start for the plate. He stopped short, and retreated almost instantly, but behind him, Monte Harris, the experienced third baseman whom Brennan had put in, streaked to the sack like greased lightning, and was ready for business. Lefty had pitched the ball high to prevent bunting, thus sending it into Fargo’s hands in such a way that the backstop did not have to waste a fraction of a second in lining it to third. There was a shout of warning from the coacher, but it came too late. Schaeffer flung himself back with outstretched hand, but the ball plunked into Harris’ grasp, and he tagged the Texan an instant before the latter’s fingers reached the sack. “Well, what do you think of that?” chuckled the delighted Whalen. “Locke’s not so worse, after all.” “He had nothing to do with it,” snapped Elgin, concealing his disappointment with an effort. Schaeffer arose with a fierce scowl, protesting that he had got back to the base safely. When the umpire motioned him toward the bench, he snarled out something about robbery, and moved grudgingly away. Lefty then proceeded to fan the next batter with swiftness and dispatch; and the Hornets romped in from the field, their spirits beginning to rise at this unexpected finish of the inning. CHAPTER XXX THE TRICKY TWIRLER