And Lefty’s chums, Billy Orth, Laughing Larry, and Dirk Nelson, rejoiced unspeakably. All through the game Dalton laughed as of old, while behind the pan Nelson crouched and signaled, sure that never once would Lefty fail to throw the curve called for and put it where he desired without the variation of an inch. Such control, such smoke, such headwork, Nelson had never before seen a pitcher display; and he afterward made the statement, regardless of the feelings of other twirlers who had worked with him. From the opening of the game till the last man was down, the Specters strove like fiends to get Lefty’s goat; but all their sneers, their tricks, and their baiting proved ineffectual. Apparently he was deaf, dumb, and blind to everything save the task in hand. The wild cheering of the tremendous crowd as he swept down batter after batter seemed to affect him no more than profound silence――perhaps not as much. One, two, three, four, five innings――not a hit off Locke! Six, seven, eight innings――not a hit; not a man had reached first base! “Shut ’em out!” pleaded the crowd. “Don’t let ’em touch you to-day, Lefty! You’ve got ’em killed!” Then in turn, when the Blue Stockings were at bat, that immense throng begged them to fall on Donovan and get a run. “One run will do it!” yelled an urchin with a voice like a calliope. “Dat’s all you want, fellers. It wins dis game.” One run! Donovan himself felt that it would be enough. Perspiration standing forth from every pore, his teeth set like the jaws of a vise, his eyes blazing, he whipped the ball across the corners. One run! Was he going to let this left-handed cub outpitch him in the struggle which would give the winning team the championship? Not if he ruined his arm then and there! Then came the eighth inning, and again the strain of the terrible pace told on Donovan. The first man up got a safety, and the next hitter, directed by Kennedy, sacrificed him to second. With one down, it was Jack Daly’s turn to bat, and Donovan laughed; for he had Jack’s alley, and knew he could keep him from hitting. But at this moment Kennedy suddenly came forth from the bench, bearing a bat. Kennedy, the old stager, the veteran, was going in as a pinch hitter. Donovan laughed. “He’s easier,” he thought. “Why don’t he send out Burchard?” Burchard was the Blue Stockings’ greatest batter, kept on the bench for just such emergencies as this; and a thousand others wondered that Kennedy should throw himself into the breach with big Burchard waiting and ready. But Kennedy was inspired. He had been watching Donovan’s work from the beginning of the game, and he believed he could find the man for a safety. As he walked to the plate, he gave the runner a signal which told him to be on his toes and ready to go when the ball was hit.