Kenyon, the visitors’ clever second baseman, pranced, grinning, to the plate, seemingly inspired with new life. Grist caught the ball deftly, apparently undisturbed by the unfortunate break. As he paused to drive Logie back to third, however, he discovered that Carson, the new manager, had left the coaching line and returned to the bench, from which he could get an accurate view of the entire field. “He needn’t worry,” muttered the pitcher to himself, as he turned back to face the smiling batter. “We’re still one run to the good, and this little flurry is going to have the kibosh put on it right here and now.” He had little fear of Kenyon doing anything; so far Rowdy’s hitting had been of a decidedly negligible quality. Perhaps it was this touch of unconscious carelessness which proved Pete Grist’s undoing; perhaps it was due simply to the mysterious hitting streak which comes at the most unexpected times, and without apparent reason. At all events, after playing the waiting game to the last moment, Kenyon finally smashed a sizzler through the short field, scoring Logie, and himself reaching first by a great sprint. Instantly the entire Specter visiting team began openly to rejoice: “Up in a balloon!” “Got him going!” “Here’s where we lock it up in a valise!” “Murder it, Ted, old man!” “Laminate it! Only one down, you know.” A low, concerted growl began to sound from the spectators who crowded the stands. Ready to shout themselves hoarse for a man pitching a winning game, their displeasure was even more swift, and quite without mercy. Here and there a shrill voice bawled admonition and biting criticism, which sounded above the barking chorus of the Blue Stocking infield: “Get into him, Pete, old man!” “Kill him, old boy! You can do it!” “Warp ’em round his neck!” A spot of red glowed dully in each tanned cheek as Grist dug his copper toe clip into the earth and cuddled the ball under his chin. The sudden yelping from his teammates told the pitcher that they were not sure of him. They were seeking to brace him up, as if he had been a raw recruit instead of the bright particular star of the Blue Stocking pitching staff. Moreover his quick eye had not failed to notice the hasty appearance of two men from the sheltered players’ bench, who loped off to the right, shedding sweaters as they went. There are times when it takes very little to upset the equilibrium of the most seasoned twirler, and apparently this was one of them. For six innings Grist had pitched an almost errorless game, and there was every reason why he should do his best to finish it.