In the whirl and thrill of the conflict, once or twice he thought of how a ball pitched by Donovan, his present opponent, glancing from his bat, had seemingly done him little damage, although it struck him squarely in the head; how that blow had presently brought about the entire loss of his own identity and the assumption of the name and, in some respects, the identity of another man killed at his side in the railroad smash. Vaguely he could now remember fighting to recall the truth concerning himself, while his mind remained an absolute blank as to the past. And the agony of his struggles caused him to shudder. But it was glorious to know that he was again restored to reason and to his normal condition. The shadow was gone from his mind――gone, he believed, never to return. And all the other shadows had been dispelled in the meanwhile. Janet was yonder in the box, trusting him, believing in him, sorry she had ever doubted. And so, while Jack Kennedy hugged himself on the bench, while Charles Collier gazed and marveled, while the great crowd cheered itself mad again and again, he cut the Specters down one after another as they faced him. Behind him his teammates waited, ready to give him their best support. Three times this great support prevented a Specter from getting a hit. And Donovan, also pitching the game of his career, twice pulled himself out of bad holes, and kept the Blue Stockings from scoring. Once he wabbled and it seemed that he was gone, but his manager made no move, and in time he rose to the emergency and saved himself. So the game continued, inning after inning, with neither side getting a tally, with not a single Specter reaching first; for thus far Lefty was pitching a no-hit, no-run game. To-morrow the newspapers would be full of it, and the name of Tom Locke would be chiseled forever on the baseball tablet of fame. No man present was happier than old Jack Kennedy, for he was the manager whose judgment had brought this young busher to the front and given him the opportunity through which in a single season he had risen higher than any bush-league pitcher ever rose before. “He’s my boy――my boy!” Kennedy whispered again and again as Lefty cut the Specters down with his burning speed, his bewildering change of pace, and his unhittable hook drop, delivered always when least expected. “I found him. I put him into the game after Brennan kicked him out. I thought I was done with baseball, but I’m back to die in harness, unless I’m fired again.” Without a single exception, Lefty’s teammates were elated. Yes, it is true that even the veteran, old Pete Grist, was supremely happy as he watched Locke work. If for an instant a pang of jealousy entered his heart, he thrust it out as one would thrust forth the devil himself.