“Who is it?” asked Wayne to the bleachers at large. “Steve himself!” was the answer. “Bust it, Steve! Knock the hide off it! Wow!” And sure enough it was Manager Milburn who faced the Doncaster pitcher now and who tapped a long black bat gently on the rubber, leaned it against his leg, moistened his hands and rubbed them together, took up the bat again and eyed the moundsman warily. In the outfield the players were stepping back and still back. The Harrisville rooters shouted and screeched, red of face, entreating of voice. One ball, far wide of the plate, that Steve Milburn only looked at as it sped by. A strike that caused him to turn and observe the umpire silently and derisively. Another ball, high and on the inside, that sent Steve’s head and shoulders jerking back from its path. The pandemonium increased. Another offering that would have cut the outer corner of the plate knee-high had not Manager Milburn’s bat been ready for it. A fine, heartening _crack_ of wood and leather, a gray streak cutting the shadows of the first base stands, cries, pounding feet, dust, confusion and--victory! The ball passed second baseman a yard from his outstretched fingers and went to right fielder on its first long bound. But right fielder never threw it. Instead, he merely trotted benchward. For O’Neill was throwing himself across the plate by that time and Milburn was on first and the game was over! And Harrisville had avenged yesterday’s defeat to the tune of four to three! The stands emptied, the players thronged to the dressing-rooms and Wayne and June journeyed across the trampled field of battle on their way to the gate as happy as though they themselves had won that victory. And Sam trotted behind with his pathetic stub of a tail wagging proudly. CHAPTER XIX WAYNE LENDS A HAND