Nevens hit into the diamond. The inning would have ended then and there had not Sandy Rollins, at second, fumbled the weak grounder and spent valuable time chasing it around his feet. Lefty felt a hot rush of anger stir within him. Two such errors are enough to try the temper of any pitcher, especially when he is working his hardest. The inning should have ended minutes before, and now the bases were full, and Zack Schaeffer was swaggering to the pan, a confident grin on his face. The sight of him cooled Locke as swiftly and completely as it had done once before that day. He shifted the ball in his fingers, taking his time. He hoped to fan this fellow. Suddenly he pitched, and the ball shot upward with a little jump, rising over the Texan’s bat as he struck. “Strike!” droned the umpire. “That’s the stuff!” cried Ogan from first. “Got him swinging like a garden gate, Lefty.” Schaeffer set his teeth, and the flesh seemed to harden over his jaws. His eyes gleamed. As before, Lefty took his time. When at length he poised himself on his right foot, flung back his arm, and brought it forward with a whiplike motion, the sphere came humming over with speed which almost made the air smoke. Schaeffer struck again. This time he missed, as before, but even as he swung he let go his hold on the bat, which went spinning through the air straight at Locke. “Look out!” cried Fargo. The southpaw ducked just in time to let the bat pass over him. When he straightened up, he stood for an instant, his eyes fixed on Schaeffer’s face with an expression in them which showed a little of the contempt that filled him. “Beg pardon,” mumbled the batter. “Accident.” Lefty knew the Texan lied. To be sure, a man sometimes throws his bat in striking, but almost never straight out into the diamond. Besides, Schaeffer did not have the least appearance of regret, unless it was regret that the stick had missed its mark. Locke made no comment, however. After the man had recovered his bat, the southpaw stood for a moment, ball in hand, looking fixedly at him. When he finally pitched, he used a delivery which seemed to promise a swift one, but instead it was the slowest sort of a slow ball. In spite of everything he could do, Schaeffer struck too soon. As the umpire’s voice sounded in his ears, a snarl broke from the Texan’s lips. For an instant it seemed almost that he meant to launch his bat again straight at Locke’s head. Perhaps he might have done so had it not been for the warning clutch of Gash Benkard’s fingers on his shoulder. Then, with a furious motion, he cast the stick to the ground, and walked out to the slab. “Looks devilish, don’t he?” commented Whalen, on the bench. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he picked a fight with Locke after the game.” “Wish he would!” growled Bert Elgin.