With a sudden flush at the realization that he had missed a trick, the young reporter hastily subsided, and turned his attention to the diamond. Whatever might be said of Jim Donovan’s hitting ability, no fault could be found with his skill in the box. Encouraged by the success of the last inning, he evidently realized that it was up to him to see that the Specters kept their lead of one run, and the result was an exhibition of clever pitching. Dirk Nelson, the Blue Stocking backstop, was beguiled into popping to second. Jack Daly, unsurpassed as a third baseman, but an erratic stickman, fanned ignominiously. It looked as if Lefty would follow Daly’s example, but, with two and two called, he connected with a tricky drop, and beat the ball to first by a hair. Taking a good lead, he went down on the second ball pitched to Spider Grant. It was effort wasted, however, for the Blue Stocking first baseman presently fouled out back of third. This brought the inning to an abrupt termination, amid much rejoicing on the part of the visitors, and low grumbling from the disappointed fans. “Well,” said Dyer defensively, “it was the tail end of the list. Anyhow, Locke got a hit.” Eckstein chuckled. It amused the veteran newspaper man to note the violent fancies and prejudices of callow cub reporters. “Still harping on the virtues of your miraculous southpaw?” he smiled. “I’ll ask you just one question, Dyer: If he’s such a triple-plated wonder, how did Jim Brennan, of the Hornets, come to release him outright? I never yet knew the hard-headed old vet to let any ten-thousand-dollar beauties slip through his fingers.” “Still something to learn, Eck, strange as that may seem,” drawled a voice, before Dyer had time to answer. “Squeeze up a bit, and give a chap some room.” A leg was thrust over the back of the seat, followed swiftly by another, and, as Eckstein’s eyes lighted upon the tanned and freckled face of the newcomer, his own face expanded in a fat smile. “Well, well, well!” he chuckled, thrusting out a plump hand. “Back to the treadmill, eh? Have a good vacation?” “Fine!” returned Jack Stillman, settling down between the two. “How are you, Dyer? Spent ten days up in the woods about a thousand miles away from anywhere, and then I began to get worried for fear this understudy of mine wasn’t sending the dope in right. How about it, kid? Old man have any kicks?” “A few,” grunted the cub reporter. “He’d kick if he had the Angel Gabriel writing up games.”