Lefty approached the bench in a very dubious state of mind. He was not at all sure that this first inning might not prove his last, and when he saw Ogan hurry up to the manager and say something in a low tone of voice, he fully expected to be told that he might ornament the bench for the remainder of the game. He tried to gain some idea of what was passing through Brennan’s mind by watching his face, but swiftly came to the conclusion that this was hopeless. A mask of carved and painted wood could not have been more impassive. The manager listened to what the cub captain had to say, without moving a muscle of his face. Then he spoke a few rapid sentences, and Ogan turned away with a nod. “You’re up, Buck,” he said shortly. “Start us off with a good one, old fellow.” Fargo grinned, sauntered to the plate, and tapped the rubber indolently with his war club. Then he stood back, when Schaeffer, who seemed to have been unnecessarily slow in starting, requested permission to limber his wing a bit. The reason for this was soon apparent. The first ball fairly made the air smoke, and it cut the plate in half. The next was quite as speedy, but took a sharp hop as it neared the pan. The third was a whizzing curve. “Showing off,” Fargo commented, as if to himself, but in a voice which penetrated to Schaeffer’s ears. “I thought that was it.” Then he stepped into the box again, smiling at the Texan twirler in a manner which seemed to aggravate that individual not a little. With a sneering uptilt at the corners of his mouth, the slab man took Kenny’s signal and whipped the ball over with terrific speed. The speed was so great, in fact, that Fargo, in spite of the exhibition he had witnessed a moment before, struck a bit too late. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” shouted Pete Nevens from third. “He didn’t know it went by, Zack, old Bronc!” “Give him another sample,” urged the player on first. “Mebbe you’d like him to toss you one,” suggested Kenny. “He’s got a nice little lob ball that mebbe you can hit.” Buck Fargo simply smiled that wide smile of his, and waited quietly, his eye on Schaeffer. “Look out!” shouted the pitcher, as the ball left his fingers the second time. Fargo dodged instinctively, for the horsehide had started straight at him with burning speed. Only by bending swiftly and holding his bat far over the plate did he escape being hit. This was one of Schaeffer’s little tricks to disturb the nerve of a batsman. With the finest sort of control, he could usually put the ball wherever he desired, and he chose on this occasion to send it as close to Fargo as possible. He shook his head with an air of relief as if he had feared he might hit the backstop, and was glad he had not.