“He ought to have a doctor,” said someone. “Perhaps his skull is fractured.” “I don’t need a doctor,” declared Locke, suddenly sitting up. “I’m all right. A little tap like that never hurt anybody. Donovan hasn’t got much speed to-day.” “Donovan!” exclaimed Kennedy. “Why, that’s Colfax pitching.” Locke looked at the old manager queerly. “Colfax?” he muttered. “Who’s Colfax! Never heard of him. The Specters are ahead, aren’t they?” “Where do you think you are?” choked Kennedy, his excitement growing. “You’re playing the Semour Stars, out in the bush. You’re pitching for the Deers, of Deering.” It was Locke’s turn to appear bewildered. “I don’t think I get you right,” he muttered blankly. “What are you doing here, anyhow? Carson is managing the team now.” “Not this team, he ain’t,” retorted old Jack. “Look here, Lefty, has that bump on your bean put you right again? Who are you? What’s your name?” “Why, my name is Hazelton, though I’m playing the game as Tom Locke. What a blame fool question, Kennedy!” The old manager showed his satisfaction, and did a dance which caused the crowd to stare at him in wonderment. “You’re all right now, Lefty, old boy! You’ve got your noddle cleared up by that bean ball. I’ll bet you got one on the koko some other time, and that was what started you wrong to begin with.” “Wrong? What do you mean? How wrong?” asked Locke, gazing around in surprise at his strange and unfamiliar surroundings. “What am I doing here?” “Playing baseball. I told you a minute ago. You’re Bob Stranger. Anyhow, that’s what you called yourself when you came to me, and you swore you didn’t know how to pitch and had never seen a game of ball.” “Jack, you’re stringing me. I don’t remember how I got here, but――” “Play ball!” cried the umpire. “Shall we give you a runner, Stranger, or will you stick in the game?” “If you’re speaking to me,” returned Locke, “I’ll stick in the game. That tap on the head didn’t jar me a bit.” In proof of which, after jogging down to first, he stole second on the first ball pitched to the next batter, and came home with the winning run when a right-field single followed. That night Kennedy did his best to explain everything to the satisfaction of Locke. “I wonder what the team thinks of me?” murmured Lefty. “They must figure that I’m just about as yellow as Bert Elgin himself. I wouldn’t quit because I was suspended――not in my right mind, anyhow. I don’t blame Carson for being raw and letting me go.” Kennedy pulled a yellow envelope from his pocket, and produced the message it contained. “Carson’s done with the Blue Stockings, anyhow,” he said. “Here’s a wire from Collier, asking me to come back and take the management of the team. I can get there just in time for the last game. If we win that game we get the pennant. What do you say, Lefty? Will you pitch it?” “Will I!” cried Locke. “All I want is the chance!” “It’s yours,” declared Kennedy. “You’ll pitch, son.”