“You’re there, all right, Lefty,” said Nelson, grinning through the wires of his mask. “If they wait for you to hand ’em the game, they’re fooled.” Locke made no retort. In position to pitch, he faced Grant and looked to see if the captain gave him a signal to throw to third. But, remembering the wild heave to first, even though Murray was taking a perilous lead, Spider withheld the signal. “Get Aldrich,” he said. “That’s all you have to do.” Locke’s first pitch to Aldrich was high, and the batter, after starting to swing, checked himself in time to get the benefit of a called ball. Nelson returned the sphere promptly. Lefty muffed the toss, brushed his hand across his eyes, picked the ball up, and toed the plate. There was a sudden wild yell of warning. Murray, spurred by desperation, securing a good lead off third, had started on the jump for the plate. It was an attempt to steal home. “Here, here!” shouted Nelson, leaping forward to take the ball. To the dismay of the Blue Stockings, Locke turned to look toward third before throwing. Apparently he was surprised and dazed by failing to perceive Murray anywhere in the vicinity of that sack. Nor did he at that time seem to see Dillingham coming up from second as fast as he could leg it. “The plate! Put it home!” shrieked Larry Dalton. Locke swung back slowly, almost heavily. At that moment Bugs was flinging himself for the slide to the pan, and it was too late to stop him. That steal had tied the score. Then Lefty did what would have been a foolish thing had he made a perfect throw. Swinging back, he pegged the ball to third, although Dillingham was within ten feet of the sack when the sphere left the pitcher’s fingers. Leaping high, and reaching as far as he could, Jack Daly felt the ball barely graze the end of his gloved fingers. Away it went toward the left-field bleachers, and the coacher sent Dillingham on to the plate. Joe Welch got the ball, and lined it to the pan in a hopeless attempt to stop that second run. The throw was a bit wide; and when Nelson, lunging with the ball, tagged Dillingham, the umpire spread out his open hands, palms downward. The game was over! Locke had thrown it away at last. CHAPTER XVI HOT WORDS In a small, bare room of the clubhouse Al Carson waited, his face dark as a storm cloud. At times he muttered to himself. From the adjoining quarters of the defeated players there came no sounds of joshing or laughter. The loss of this game was a disagreeable pill for either management or men to swallow. After a time a heavy step sounded outside, the door opened, and Lefty Locke appeared before the manager. He was pale now beneath his healthy tan, but still his once handsome, good-natured face wore a sullen, defiant expression, and his flinty eyes met Carson’s withering look without wavering. “Well,” he said, his voice strangely harsh, “you sent for me.”