Speechless with exasperation, Hutchinson turned back and reseated himself on the bench. Seeing this, and understanding that Locke would continue yet a while on the firing line, Stark ran to him, grasped him with both hands, and spoke in swift, yet steady, tones: “Pull yourself together, Lefty; you’ve got to do it, and you can. Bangs is easy, and that man Murtel can’t hit a balloon. Put the ball over, and take chances with them; we’re behind you. Don’t hurry, and keep your head.” Tom gave the disturbed captain a reassuring smile. “I know I ought to be sent to the stable,” he said; “but I’ll do my level best now. Watch me.” Bingo Bangs was not much of a hitter, and the crowd saw Lefty whip the ball through a single groove three times in succession, and three times the Bullies’ catcher hammered the air. After the third strike, the ball having been returned by Oulds, Locke caught a quick signal from the backstop, and wheeled, to flash the sphere like a shot into the hands of Labelle, who had dodged past the runner. Labelle nailed Lisotte, and the two Canadians exchanged courtesies in choice patois. This second swift putout awoke some of the saddened Kingsbridgers, their sudden yells of satisfaction mingling with the groans of the Bancrofters. “_Now_ we’re all right!” cried Larry Stark. “Take a fall out of old Pinwheel, Lefty. We’ll make a game of this yet.” Locke’s nerves were growing steadier. He had forced himself to dismiss every thought of the girl who had treated him so shabbily, and the man, her companion, who had flung him an insult and escaped a thrashing. Until the last inning was over he would concentrate his energies upon the work in hand. As before, the Bancroft pitcher’s efforts to connect with Locke’s slants were laughable; he could not touch the ball, even to foul it. “Hold them down now, Craddock,” begged Fancy Dyke from the bleachers. “They shut us out last time we was here; let’s return the compliment to-day.” Murtel grinned; thus far he had seen nothing that would lead him to doubt his ability to hold the Kinks runless. Nor was he ruffled when Anastace got a scratch hit from him in the last of the fifth; for the three following batters were like putty in his hands. On the part of Kingsbridge there was uncertainty and anxiety as Locke returned to the slab, for now the head of Bancroft’s list, the best hitters of the team, were coming up to face him, and they were full of confidence. There were times, it seemed, when Lefty was sadly erratic, and were he to slump again in this game the faith of his admirers would be much impaired. Never had Tom Locke put more brains into his pitching. He had a speed ball that smoked, and his curves broke as sharply keen as a razor’s edge; furthermore, he “mixed them up” cleverly, his change of pace proving most baffling, and his slow ball always seeming to come loafing over just when the hitter was looking for a whistler.