Tom knew that he must at least keep the next two men from hitting out of the infield. Neither of them were dangerous batters, although that counted for little since at such times it frequently happens that the poorest hitter on a team comes to the mark with a rescuing wallop. The first batsman was plainly anxious to hit, and Sam took his cue from that. The first ball was a drop that failed to please the umpire. Sam was more than ordinarily deliberate in returning the ball to Tom, and Tom was as slow as cold molasses. He looked all over the field before he even faced the batsman again. Then he studied that youth thoughtfully for several seconds before he began to wrap his fingers about the ball. The batter showed his impatience. He stepped from one foot to the other, leaned across the plate, flourished his bat with short strokes. Sam gave the signal, Tom nodded, threw up his hands, and shot the ball like a streak of greased lightning across the inner corner of the platter. “Strike!” announced the umpire. The batsman turned angrily. “What!” he cried. Sam tossed back the ball. On third the runner was dancing and shuffling, running along the base-line with Tom’s wind-up, and scooting back to the bag as the ball was delivered. Again the signal and again the ball sped forward. But this time it was a slow one that floated lazily to the plate and then erratically settled down and under the swinging bat. “Strike two!” said the umpire. The batsman could not dispute that. He only growled and glared ferociously at Tom. The latter could afford to waste one and so he answered Sam’s signal with an in-shoot that was refused and went as a ball. It was two and two now. The stands were almost silent as Tom wound up for his next delivery. Very deliberately he went at it and when, finally, his hand shot forward it hardly seemed that there could be any “steam” on the ball. And yet I doubt if few persons saw it after it left Tom’s hand. Certainly the batsman didn’t. One could discern his brief instant of indecision before he swung his bat around with every ounce of strength behind it. He spun on his heel, staggered, and recovered as the umpire cried: “_Striker’s out!_” Amesville burst into joyful acclaim and on the bench Mr. George, with a pleased smile and a satisfied sigh, leaned back again. “Two gone!” cried Frank Warner cheerfully. “Last man, fellows!”