“Look yonder at that wagon stopping on the road by the gate. A feller’s jumped out, and he’s got a baseball suit on, too. It’s that sneak Ralph, as sure’s you’re born. I’m on to his curves, all right. He just wants to keep the crowd in suspense, you know, and then get the cheers when he shows up. Bah! he makes me tired, that’s what.” Lef judged others by himself. Under similar conditions that was just what he would have done, for applause was sweet in his ears. When Ralph was seen running across the field there was a rippling cheer that advanced into a positive roar. The boy’s face flamed, for he was not accustomed to being in the limelight. Still, he paid no attention to the shouts that greeted his coming, but hastening over to where the boys were still practicing he met Captain Seymour. “Glad you’ve turned up, Ralph. The boys were beginning to get a little worried about you, and Frank just said he’d go in if necessary, though his arm is in a bad way, and he might injure it for keeps. We want him for the last game--if there is going to be another,” said Roderic, looking closely at the other, as if to make up his mind whether Ralph had brought his nerve with him. “The delay was entirely unavoidable. I had to carry a little child half a mile. She had crushed her hand. That is her father in the wagon with her, on the way to the doctor’s. Hello! Frank! better late than never. Send her in, Paul! How long can I have to warm up, Captain?” said Ralph, as he caught the ball, and began to return it, quietly at first, but with increasing pressure as his muscles responded to the demand made upon them. “The umpire says that the time is almost up; but on account of your coming late he will postpone calling the game ten minutes. Now, do your prettiest, Ralph. I hope you get that trick ball working handily this afternoon,” returned the other, who was plainly more or less nervous. “I’m feeling in fine shape, Captain. If they knock me hard it will be because I’m out of my class, I expect,” was the confident rejoinder he received. For fully ten minutes then the young pitcher was the center of observation. Friends and foes alike commented upon his style of delivery. When he sent in an extra swift one a murmur of admiration bubbled forth. “I guess he’s the right sort,” called the sanguine Columbia adherent. “If only he don’t lose his head when those hard hitters begin to reach his ball a little. They’ve sent more than one horse to the stable to be blanketed,” declared another, less confident. Many secretly sighed because Frank Allen was temporarily out of the game. “Hope he’ll be all right by next Saturday, then. We can afford to lose this game, boys. It’ll only square things, and make it all the more interesting,” cried still another skeptic. “Give the boy a chance, will you?” demanded a man near by; “you talk like he’s thrown this game away already. I tell you he shows up well, and perhaps some of you croakers will get a surprise yet!”