Damascus came back in the first of the eighth and added another run, tying the score at three each. Herring passed the first man up and although he struck out the next two, a momentary let-down paved the way for a two-bagger and sent the tying tally across. A moment later a quick peg from Herring caught the runner at second a foot off the bag and brought relief to the anxious audience. Jones started the last of the eighth for Harrisville by flying out to pitcher. O’Neill, undaunted, waited until the score was two-and-three and then busted the next offering through the infield for a long rolling hit that placed him on second and wrought the spectators to a frenzy of delight. LaCroix was up next and Wayne followed LaCroix. Wayne was wondering anxiously whether he would have better success this time. Already four hits had been made off Marks, proving that he was far from formidable, and yet when Wayne, swinging his bats between bench and plate, saw LaCroix match his wits against Marks’ and come off second best in the contest it seemed futile for him to hope to succeed. LaCroix swung at one and missed it, judged two balls wisely, fouled into the first base stand for a second strike and then let go at one and popped it nicely into shortstop’s glove. Wayne dropped one of the two bats he had been swinging and stepped to the rubber. Two out, a man on second and a run needed to break the tie! A hit, nothing less, was expected of Wayne, and he realised it. At first the thought was horribly disturbing. He heard the applause from the stands, less hearty this time, since he had failed them before, and it added to his tremors. He felt himself absurdly young and inexperienced and--yes, actually scared! He wished himself back on the bench, any place save where he stood, facing the pitcher with the muscles at the back of his legs trembling! They were talking to him and at him, his own side and the enemy, but what they said was confused and meaningless, and it was not until the Damascus catcher called down to his pitcher to “Fan the kid, Walt!” that any words registered on his brain. “Fan the kid!” That meant him. He didn’t mind being called a kid by his fellow players, but the catcher’s tone was a veiled insult, and something very much like anger welled up in Wayne’s breast. He tugged down his visor, seized the bat more firmly, and determined to show them that a kid could hit! He made up his mind then and there to forget everything but the task in front of him, to even forget that there were already two out and that so much depended on him, and suddenly, why he couldn’t have told, the certainty that he _could_ hit possessed him firmly. Marks looked him over. He leaned forward to get the catcher’s signal. Then he stood for an instant and Wayne knew that he was undecided what to offer him. “I’ll have a good look at the first one,” Wayne told himself, “no matter what it is!”