A hopeful cheer went up from Gridley seats, to be met with one word from Wayland fans: "Wait!" Dick served the second ball. Swat! There it went, arching up in the air, a fair hit. As fast as he could leg it went Holmes after it, and with good judgment. But the ball got there before Greg did. In a twinkling, the young left fielder had the ball up and in motion. Tom Reade caught it deftly at second, and wheeled toward first. But the runner saw his error in leaving first, and slid back in season. Turning back, with his lips close together, Dick tried a new batsman. Two strikes, and then the visitor sent out a little pop-over that touched ground and rolled ere Harry Hazelton could race in and get it, driving it on to first base. "Safe at first," called the umpire, and the other Waylander had reached second. "O-o-o-h!" "Don't let 'em have it, Dick---_don't_!" The wail that reached his ears was pathetic, but Prescott paid no heed. He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators. He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the fag-end of the game. The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher's wrist, but Dick nerved himself for better efforts. Despite him, however, a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the bases were full. "_O-o-oh, Dick_!" It was a wail, full of despair. Though he paid no direct heed to it the sorely pressed young pitcher put up his left hand to wipe the old sweat out of his eyes. His heart was pounding with the strain of it. Dick Prescott, born soldier, would have died for victory, _just_ then. At least, that was what he felt. The Wayland man who now stood over the plate looked like a grinning monkey as he took the pitcher's measure. "Go to it, Dickson---kill the ball!" roared the visiting fans. "Just a little two-bagger---that's all!" Dick felt something fluttering inside. In himself he felt the whole Gridley honor and fame revolving during that moment. Then he resolutely choked down the feeling. The umpire was signaling impatiently for him to deliver. Dick essayed a jump ball. With a broadening grin Dickson of Wayland reached for it vigorously. He struck it, but feebly. Another of those short-winded, high-arched pops went up in air. There was no hope or chance for Hazelton to get to the spot in time---and Wayland's man away from third was steaming in while Purcell made the home plate at a bound. Dick raced---raced for all he was worth, though his heart felt as if steam had shut down. Across the grass raced Prescott, as though he believed he could make history in fifths of seconds. In his speed he went too far. The ball was due to come down behind him. There was no time to think. Running at full speed as he was, Pitcher Dick rose in the air. It looked like an incredible leap---but he made it. His hands pulled the slow-moving popball down out of the air.