Donovan let the next one pass. It was a ball. Then followed a slow one, delivered with a swing and snap that fooled the batter into striking before the lingering, tantalizing horsehide was within reach. Donovan frowned and regained his balance, annoyed slightly by the burst of raucous delight from the stands. When he faced the pitcher again the grin still curved his lips, but it had grown somewhat thin. Silence settled over the field. Ten thousand straining eyes were turned anxiously on the quiet figure in the pitcher’s box. Lefty’s hand drew back slowly, cuddling the ball for a second as he poised himself on one foot. Then, like a flash, his long left arm swung flail like through the air. The ball was high――almost too high, it seemed at first. But suddenly it flashed downward past Donovan’s shoulders, and across his breast. Too late the batter saw it drop, and tried weakly to hit. There was a swish, a plunk, and―― “Batter’s out!” bawled the umpire. CHAPTER III TIED IN THE EIGHTH “Pretty work,” commented a blond young man on the reporter’s bench, pushing back his rakish green hat. “There’s one thing about Locke, you can always bank on his using his head. He certainly stopped that rally in great shape.” “Huh!” grunted the stout, bald man beside him. “I can’t see anything very wonderful in that.” He took off his glasses, and began to polish them. “It don’t take any extraordinary amount of skill to outguess Forbes, and Donovan’s never very dangerous to a pitcher who knows him.” “Oh, come now, Eckstein,” protested the blond reporter. “Jim’s no slouch at the bat, and you know it. What have you got against Locke, anyhow?” Eckstein replaced his glasses, and yawned. “Nothing special, Dyer,” he drawled. “I’ve been too long in the business, though, to lose my head over every infant phenom who butts into the Big League. More than half of ’em can’t keep up the pace they set themselves at first.” “I’ll bet Locke does,” Dyer said energetically. “He’s got too much sense to use himself up the way some of the cubs do. He plays the game for all there is in it, but he plays it with his head even more than with that corking portside hooker of his. Anyhow, he’s the Blue Stockings’ one best bet this season, take it from me, Eck. Only for him they’d be in the second division, with all this monkey business of new owner and new manager right in the middle of the season. That plays hob with a team even if the old manager’s a bum, which Jack Kennedy wasn’t, by a long shot. By the way, Eck, where’s he gone?” “Who? Kennedy?” grunted the stout man, his eyes fixed on the diamond. “Back to his farm, I reckon. He’s got one somewhere in the Middle West.――Pretty work, Jim. That’s the way to pull ’em.”