But if he thought to find Wayne asleep he was disappointed, for the boy wheeled and caught the descending ball and threw it to the plate. The throw was short and Steve Milburn barked across at him: “Keep ’em up, Sloan!” Captain Cross met him and walked back with him to the trampled ground behind the base line. “I’ll take the throws from the plate, Sloan, but if I can’t get in for them it’s up to you. Anything’s yours this side of the bag, but don’t crowd LaCroix too much. I’ll give you the signals on the runners. Just keep steady and you’ll do all right, kid. Come on now! Get into it!” Five minutes of fielding followed, Manager Milburn batting them out; hard liners that brought Wayne up standing when they slammed into his glove, slow rollers that sent him speeding nearly to the pitcher’s box, pop-flies that lost themselves for a moment in the glare of the sky, bounders that brought all his baseball instinct into play. On the whole, he did none too well during that practice. More than one ball went past him or dribbled out of his hands. Once he muffed a fly miserably. Twice he overthrew to first. After the muffled fly he caught the dubious expression on Captain Cross’ face and felt his heart sink. Here, he thought, was the chance he had waited and longed for, and now he was going to throw it away! But in the next moment he was gritting his teeth and thumping fist into glove determinedly. He wouldn’t! He could play far better than he had been playing! It was only the crowd and the unnerving knowledge that so much depended on this afternoon’s performance that accounted for his fumbles. If only they had let him practice just one morning, instead of thrusting him like this into a game at a moment’s notice! And then the bell sounded and they were trotting in to the bench. Manager Milburn beckoned to him and Wayne crossed to where he was standing in front of the little press box. Steve looked him over critically while Wayne, red-faced, dripping perspiration, waited. Finally: “How did it go?” asked the manager. Wayne smiled wanly. “Not very well, sir. I--I reckon I’m sort of nervous.” “Of course you are! You’ll forget that, though. Don’t take it too hard, Sloan, or you’ll pull a boner, sure as shooting. Keep cool, that’s the main thing. Use your head all the time. I’m not expecting miracles, son,” he added kindly. “Just do your best. That’s all I’m asking of you. Can you hit?” “I--yes, sir. I mean, I have hit some, but----” “All right. We’ll soon see. Better try to wait him out the first time. Watch his pitching and try to make him give you what you can hit after that. All right, fellows! On the run!”