There was a groan from the fans, a spasm of joy from the Specter coachers. Rowdy Kenyon hurried to the plate. True to his record as a waiter, he prolonged the agony till the last moment, during which time Aldrich, upholding the reputation of his team for being “ghosts on the bases,” got down to second. Finally the visiting infielder hit a weak scratch between second and short, on which he reached first by great sprinting. A wave of tense uneasiness swept over the field. Lefty’s eyes narrowed the least bit; his jaw seemed to tighten. In a few minutes, through no fault of his, the situation had changed from easy security to uncertain hazard. With none out, and a man on third, every bit of judgment and skill he possessed was needed to save the day. Driving Aldrich back with a threatening motion, he turned his attention to Callahan, and the impetuous Specter Irishman, after fouling twice, failed to touch a speedy shoot that clipped a corner. A gasp of relief came from the stands, but lapsed swiftly into tense silence; for this was an admirable opportunity to try the squeeze play, and evidently from the way John Forbes held his bat he meant to do his part. The infield crept into the diamond, balancing on their toes, alert and ready. Lefty pitched, and almost as soon as the ball left his hand he was on the jump. Forbes shortened his bat, and chopped one down the foul line straight into the flying pitcher’s glove on the first bound. Lefty Locke flashed it to third. But, for some reason, Aldrich had faltered, and now he dove back to the sack in time to save himself. “Safe!” bawled the umpire, his flat hand extended. The decision brought an avalanche of hoots and yells and taunting insults down upon his head, but he stuck to it; and when the fans settled back to take count their hearts sank within them. With the bases full and only one out, the situation was not exactly hopeful. Lefty made short work of Donovan. The visiting pitcher did not touch the ball once, missing the last bender by more than a foot. As he strolled back to the bench, however, there were few sounds of rejoicing. The end of the batting list had been reached. The bases were still densely populated, and Dutch Schwartz, the mighty hitter whose average the year before had come close to equaling that of the amazing Wagner, was sauntering out with his war club. Apparently he had no weaknesses with the stick, and his ability to outguess pitchers had made him a terror throughout the Big League. Cautious twirlers usually walked him when it was possible to do so at a dangerous time without forcing a run; but, even had he wished to do it, such a course was not open to Lefty now. Whatever anxiety the southpaw might have been feeling, he faced the batter without a tremor. The first ball was a trifle close, and Schwartz let it pass without suffering a penalty. The next, delivered with a long side swing, came over at an odd angle. The batter fouled it, evening up the score.