“Hold on, there; you’re counting your chickens before they’re hatched. Did you notice that reliable old Jack Comfort got under that screamer, and tagged it? And if you look sharp enough, Bellport, you’ll see two husky lads tearing back to try and make their bases before the ball comes; but it’s no go! There, Seymour has it on his man, and watch him send the ball to Lanky! All out! Set ’em up in the other alley, boys!” Such a frightful noise as followed this splendid play on the part of the club that was coming up from behind. What with Herman Hooker and his squad of howlers, megaphone and all, together with a thousand other brazen-throated shouters, it really seemed as though the very earth trembled. It was the ending of the seventh inning. The game was being played in Bellport, since they had been fortunate enough to win the toss. That was the first sign of luck in their favor. Besides, everybody knew that Frank Allen was still somewhat handicapped by his accident, though he had the grit to continue in the box as long as Captain Seymour wished. At one time the score had been seven to three, so that as the game progressed it began to seem that the Columbia High boys were climbing. They had had their little juggle, in which every man nearly did something foolish, and runs piled in; after which they had settled down to serious business. “They’re creeping up, boys, creeping up!” shouted Herman, encouragingly. “Sure they are, and if the game only lasts ten hours more it looks like Columbia might come in neck and neck with Bellport,” jeered one of the mill workers. Watkins Gould was about, and evidently making wagers, although he did not dare show the color of his money. There was more or less talk about finding some means of keeping him out, since he had been known to try and influence a player to do some underhand work and throw a game. The eighth inning began. Seymour had been encouraging his men to make a break and do some consecutive batting that would count. “We only need two runs to tie, three to win, fellows. Somebody jump on first, and then the rest of us get busy with our little bats!” he was saying, as his men came hustling in from the field to the bench. “Batter up!” called the umpire. “That means me,” sang out Ben Allison, as he stepped forward to the plate. Coddling looked unusually savage. The fact of the matter was he knew that these boys of Columbia were rapidly getting on to his curves. The last inning they had hit him freely, and seemed ready to take up the good work again right now. When that feeling pinches at the door of a pitcher’s heart, he is going to hurt himself trying to excel. Coddling’s one great mainstay had been his coolness under any and all conditions; and when he allowed himself to show signs of anger he not only injured his chances, but gave encouragement to the enemy.