From the way things started, it looked very much as if the newspaper man had gauged the Blue Stockings correctly. After having two strikes called, Dirk Nelson reached for one of Donovan’s wide slants, and caught it on the end of his bat for a nice single. The crowd roared, the coachers chattered, and Jack Daly pranced to the plate with every apparent intention of carrying on the good work. Unfortunately for him, the Specter twirler was not quite ready for the stable. Coolly, and with the consummate skill for which he was famous, he lured Daly into swinging at a deceptive bender, fooled him with a wonderful inshoot, and then, when the batter, grown wary, refused to bite at the doubtful ones, Donovan wound himself up and sent over a curve which cut the heart of the plate. With two and three called, Daly swung, with all his might. There was a sharp crack, and the ball sailed high in the air, foul back of third base. Dillingham jerked off his mask, and started for it, but Red Callahan’s spikes were already drumming the turf as he raced to get under it. Heedless of the shrill taunts and yells with which the fans sought to make him fumble, he fairly flew over the ground. He made the catch while stretching himself to the utmost, and Daly, flinging down his stick with a muttered exclamation of disgust, slouched toward the bench. “Never mind that!” cried Grant optimistically. “Only one down, boys. Now, Lefty, old man, get into him! We need a hit. Get off, Dirk! Get going! Drift away from that sack, man! On your toes, now!” During Daly’s turn at bat Nelson had stolen second, beating the catcher’s throw by a hair, and now he pranced off the hassock, taking every bit of lead he dared. Twice Kenyon darted behind him, compelling the runner to dive back to the cushion, but each time he was up and off again the instant the ball was returned to Donovan. Lefty stepped up to the plate and stood swinging his bat gently back and forth. The shouts of the excited fans seemed faint and far away. In reality he heard them clearly, and was young enough to be stimulated a little by this evidence of faith in his ability. But he showed nothing of this. His mind was occupied solely in trying to fathom what Donovan would be likely to hand him. The first was an outcurve, and he let it pass. The second was high; evidently Donovan was trying to prevent a bunt. The third also seemed high at first, but Lefty’s quick eyes saw it begin to drop as it neared the plate, and he swung at it. In spite of his swiftness, however, he was a fraction of a second too late. The ball hit his bat glancingly and caromed at right angles. It struck Locke’s head with force sufficient to make him stagger backward, the stick slipping out of his relaxed fingers.