“Yes,” said Carson sharply. “Get into the box as quick as you can. I meant to use Orth, but his shoulder’s bad. You’ll have to go in without warming up. And hold ’em, kid. We can’t afford to lose this game, you know.” Lefty had already yanked off his sweater. Even as the manager finished, he caught the glove tossed out by the second catcher. “I’ll do my best,” he returned, jerking his cap forward over his eyes. An instant later he was walking out upon the diamond with a lithe, springy stride which told of splendid muscles under perfect control. And as he came into view of the grandstand, the hoots and yells lessened swiftly, merging with amazing abruptness into a shout of delight, accompanied by a thunderous stamping of feet. “Oh, you Lefty!” shrieked the fans fondly. “Oh, you kiddo! Kill ’em! Eat ’em alive! Nothin’ doin’ now, Specters. Good night for yours!” CHAPTER II STOPPING A RALLY By dint of playing for time, and putting over a couple of wide ones, Pete Grist had prevented Forbes, the Specter left fielder, from adding to the damage already done. Knowing that he would be taken out, he had the wit to seize every possible chance to delay the game, and thus run no risk of making any further errors. He supposed, however, that his successor would be Orth, whom he had seen start to warm up a few minutes before. When Lefty appeared on the field amid the delighted roars of the spectators, Grist’s face turned a brick red, and for a second or two he looked as if he could have committed murder with the greatest possible enjoyment. It is provoking enough, in all conscience, for a pitcher to have to leave the box on account of bad control. But to be superseded by a youngster whose Big League experience is limited to a few months, yet who, in that time, had set the fans yelling for him as if he were a Mathewson, is sufficiently humiliating to stir the mildest man to wrath. Mildness was not Pete Grist’s long suit, nor was this the first time he had writhed in the grip of the green-eyed monster. As Locke reached him his face was like a thundercloud. He fairly flung the ball at the southpaw, and, without a word, turned on his heel and strode toward the bench. Lefty stood for an instant staring after him, a touch of sympathy in his eyes. He knew from experience precisely how it felt to be benched under such circumstances. “Tough luck,” he murmured, as he mounted the hill. “I don’t blame him for being sore. I would myself.” Directly, however, he had thrust the disgruntled pitcher from his mind, and was bringing all his skill and cunning to bear on the task before him. He knew the importance of winning the game to-day. It was one of those close seasons, with three teams fighting like bulldogs for first place.