“He’s havin’ a reg’ler fit,” muttered the catcher, surrendering the sphere and backing toward his position behind the pan. Lisotte squared himself again; the coachers talked excitedly, the Bancroft crowd rooted for runs; Kingsbridge was silent. Bernsteine took a long lead off second, and McGovern danced back and forth at third. Locke was taking time at last, apparently trying hard to throw off the feverish wildness that had put him into “a hole.” Swift, high, and close came the ball to Lisotte, difficult indeed to bunt safely. But the little Canuck did not try to bunt; instead, as if he knew just what was due, he met the sphere with a snappy swing, driving it humming into the field between center and right. McGovern danced gayly to the scoring station, Bernsteine following with a rush. There was a wild riot on the Bancroft bleachers, men leaping up and down, flinging their hats into the air and yelling themselves purple in the face; for, with two runs scored, no one out, Locke apparently all to the bad, and Pinwheel Murtel in Big League form, it seemed that the game had been clinched for the Bullies. Since coming on the field, Tom Locke had been looking for Janet Harting; somehow he was confident she would attend this game. It is likely that thoughts of her had disturbed him and prevented him from concentrating upon the work of pitching, although he had not been aware of it. Walking out to take his position at the beginning of the fifth, however, his searching eyes discovered her blue parasol, and, beneath it, Janet, sitting at the side of Benton King in the same carriage in which he had first beheld her. As Locke looked, King seemed to be returning his gaze. The pitcher saw Bent lean toward the girl and say something, whereupon both laughed. For the time being Tom lost his head, greatly to the advantage of the rejoicing Bancrofters. He knew it; no one on that field knew it better. And nothing could have served better to sober him and bring him to his senses than that wicked, timely line drive by Lisotte. He saw Ringling warming up and Hutchinson talking to Henry Cope, who plainly was not feeling right. Of course, the manager was asking permission――or demanding it――to remove him immediately from the game. “I’m a fool!” thought Tom. “I have played right into that rascal’s hand.” CHAPTER XLII A SUDDEN SHIFT He hoped Cope would not yield. Perhaps the damage was done already, but he would try to redeem himself if they did not bench him. Hutchinson was saying: “What’s the use to keep him in, man alive? He’s lost the game already.” “If he’s lost the game,” returned the obstinate grocer, “what’s the use to take him out? I don’t see no sense in that. Let him pitch some more. He braced up t’other time; mebbe he will ag’in.”