Dillon was laid up, Bill Orth had a bad shoulder, and both Reilly and Lumley were notoriously independable at a moment like this. There was Lefty Locke, to be sure, but the thought of this brilliant young southpaw who had, in a few short months, pushed his way upward until he rivaled Grist himself in the esteem of players and fans alike, made the older pitcher squirm inwardly, and brought a dogged, determined expression to his face. A moment later there was a crack, a yell of joy from the Specters, a groan from the despairing fans. In spite of his self-control, a smothered gasp of dismay burst from Grist’s lips. Knowing Red Callahan’s impetuosity, he had tried to tempt him with a teasing outdrop. That he managed to connect with it was probably quite as much a surprise to the sorrel-topped third baseman as to anyone; but connect he did in beautiful style, smashing out a single which sent Aldrich across the rubber with the leading run. Above the uproar of hoots and yells and catcalls from the stands, the new manager, half rising to signal Orth to go into the box, heard a sound he had rather been expecting for the past few minutes: “Carson! One moment!” It was the sharp, incisive voice of the Blue Stockings’ owner, who sat with his daughter in one of the boxes just behind the bench, and there was an imperative note in it which brought the manager hurrying in that direction. “Did you call me, Mr. Collier?” he asked, as he reached the box. The tall, broad-shouldered, keen-faced man bent swiftly over the railing. “I did,” he replied, in a low tone. “Grist is going to pieces. Why don’t you take him out?” “I was just going to. I’ve had Orth warming up for three or four minutes.” Charles Collier frowned. “Orth!” he exclaimed. “But his shoulder’s lame. This is no time to put in a cripple. Why don’t you use your southpaw, Locke?” “He pitched a hard game yesterday and――” “And won it,” interrupted the owner swiftly. “Quite so; but my idea was not to work him too hard,” returned the manager suavely. “Of course, if you wish it――” “I do. In my opinion he’s the only man who can stop the break and pull things together. He’s got the measure of every one of these fellows. I don’t think you need worry about three innings hurting his arm.” “Very well,” said Carson. “I’ll send him out there at once.” His expression was bland and pleasant, but the instant his back was turned he frowned. “Butting in as soon as this, are you?” he muttered, striding toward the bench. “Picked a favorite already, too. I s’pose Pete’ll be sore as a crab, but it can’t be helped. Locke!” There was a quick movement, and from the players’ bench appeared a tall, lithe, cleanly built, long-armed youngster of twenty-three or so, his cap pushed back on a mass of heavy, dark brown hair, a look of inquiry in his keen, brown eyes. “Want me?”