Anthony pitched that inning faultlessly; never had ball obeyed him so absolutely; it dropped, swung to the right, to the left, revolved or sped dead. The batters faded away like ice cream at a church supper. As he came in from the “box” the close-lipped stranger strode forward and grasped his shoulder. “I want to see you after the game,” he declared; “don't sign up with no one else. I'm from--” he whispered his persuasive source in Anthony's ear. The captain commended him pithily. “He's got 'em all,” Hinkle proclaimed to the assembled throng. When Anthony batted next it was with calculated nicety; he drove the ball between shortstop and second base, and, by dint of hard running, achieved a rapturously acclaimed “two bagger.” The captain then merely tapped the ball--breathlessly it was described as a “sacrifice”--and Anthony moved to the third base, and a succeeding hit sent him “home.” Another run was added to the Ellerton score, it now stood three to nothing in their favor, before Anthony returned to the dusty depression from which he pitched. He was suddenly and unaccountably tired; the cursed heat was worse than ever, he thought, wiping a wet palm on his grimy leg; above him the sky was an unbroken, blazing expanse of blue; short, sharp shadows shifted under the feet of the tense players; in the shade of the grandstand the dresses, mostly white, showed here and there a vivid note of yellow and violet, the crisp note of crimson. The throbbing song of a thrush floated from a far hedge... it stirred him with a new unrest, dissatisfaction... “Kag” looked like a damned fool grimacing at him through the wire mask--exactly like a monkey in a cage. The umpire in his inflated protector, crouching in a position of rigorous attention, resembled a turtle. He pitched, and a spurt of dust rose a yard before the plate. “Ball one!” That wouldn't do, he told himself, recalling the substantially expressed confidence, esteem, of Ellerton. The captain's sibilant “steady” was like the flick of a whip. With an effort which taxed his every resource he marshalled his relaxed muscles into an aching endeavor, centred his unstable thoughts upon the exigencies of the play, and retired the batter before him. But he struck the next upon the arm, sending him, nursing the bruise, to first base. He saw the captain grimly wave the outfielders farther back; and, determined, resentful, he struck out in machinelike order the remaining batters. But he was unconscionably weary; his arm felt as though he had been pitching for a week, a month; and he dropped limp and surly upon the sod at a distance from the players' bench.