A storm of applause from the grandstand rippled away in opposite directions along the line sitting by the fence; boys with their mouths full of fingers whistled incredibly. Hinkle held out the watch, but Anthony's eyes were fixed upon the ground. He shook the substantial mark of Ellerton's approval, so that the ornate fob glittered in the sun, but Anthony's arms remained motionless at his sides. “Take it, you leatherkop,” a voice whispered fiercely in his ear. 'And with a start, he awkwardly grasped the gift. “Thank you,” he muttered, his voice inaudible five yards away. He wished with passionate resentment that the fiend who was yelling “speech!” would drop dead. He glanced up, and the sight of all those excited, kindly faces deepened his confusion until it rose in a lump in his throat, blurred his vision, in an idiotic, childish manner. “Ah, _call_ the game, can't you,” he urged over his shoulder. The first half inning was soon over, without incident; and, as Anthony walked to the pitcher's “box,” the necessity to surpass all previous efforts was impressed upon him by the watch, by the presence of that spectator from a major league who had come to see him “act.” He wished again, in a passing irritation, that it had not been so hot. Behind the batter he could see the countenance of “Kag” Lippit staring through the wires of his mask. “Kag” executed a cabalistic signal with his left arm, and Anthony pitched. The umpire hoarsely informed the world at large that it had been a strike. A blast of derisive catcalls arose from the Ellerton partisans; another strike, shriller catcalls, and the batter retired after a third ineffectual lunge amid a tempest of banter. The second batter hit a feeble fly negligently attached by the third baseman, who “put it over to first” in the exuberance of his contempt. The third Anthony disposed of with equal brevity. He next faced the pitcher, and, succumbing to the pressure of extraordinary events, he swung the bat with a tremendous effort, and the flattened ball described a wide arc into the ready palms of the right fielder. “You're _Out!_” the umpire vociferated. The uncritical portion of the spectators voiced their pleasure in the homeric length of the hit, but the captain was contemptuously cold as Anthony returned to the bench. “The highschool hero,” he remarked; “little Willie the Wallop. If you don't bat to the game,” he added in a different tone, “if you were Eddie Plank I'd bench you.” That inning the Ellerton team scored a run: a youth hurtling headlong through the dust pressed his cheek affectionately upon the dingy square of marble dignified by the title of home, while a second hammered him violently in the groin with the ball; one chorus shrieked, “out by a block!” another, “safe! safe!” he was “safe as safe!” the girls declared. The umpire's voice rose authoritatively above the tumult. “Play ball! he's safe!”