It must be admitted that Grant had considered the advisability of handing Cohen a pass, but knowing Wolcott, the fellow who came next, was almost as dangerous a hitter, he had decided that such a piece of strategy would be ill advised. Taking into consideration the batter’s ability to meet speed, Rod shook his head when Stone called for a straight one on the inside corner. Ben knew at once that the Texan wished to try to strike Cohen out, and so he swiftly changed the signal. Now Cohen had brains in his head and was also a good guesser. Moreover, he knew that Grant relied largely upon his remarkable drop when a strike-out was needed. And so it happened that, seeing Rod decline to follow the first signal, he was convinced that the pitcher would hand up one of those sharp dips. Having guessed right, the batter judged the drop beautifully and hit it a tremendous smash. Away sailed the ball toward center field, some distance to the right of Shultz, who stretched his stout legs to get under it. “He can’t touch it!” was the cry. Nevertheless, when Foxhall started off third, Pelty, defiant of coaching rules, sprang forward, grabbed him and yanked him back. “Get on to that sack!” the little shortstop panted. “Get ready to run! You can score anyhow; you don’t need a start.” Thus advised, Foxhall leaped back to the cushion, upon which he planted his left foot with the right advanced, crouching, his hands clenched, his arms hooked the least bit, ready to get away like a sprinter starting from his mark. Shultz made a splendid run, leaping into the air at the proper moment and thrusting out his bare right hand. The ball struck in that outshot hand and stuck there. An instant before the catch was made Pelty shrieked, “Go,” and Foxhall raced for the plate. It was impossible to stop that run. Cohen’s long sacrifice fly had tied the score, in spite of the strenuous and sensational one-handed catch in center field; and the crowd leaped and yelled, with arms up-flung and caps hurled into the air. CHAPTER III BENCHED. In moments like this the baseball fan of any age goes wild with frenzy; especially is this true of the enthusiastic schoolboy fan who has watched his team fight an uphill game and come neck-and-neck with a worthy and much-feared rival in one of the late innings of the contest. The youthful Wyndhamites shrieked until their faces were purple and their eyes bulging, flourishing their banners and frantically pounding one another over heads and shoulders. At the bench the players laughingly danced around Foxhall and then cheered Cohen as the latter came walking back from first, muttering to himself that the catch had been “a case of horseshoes, nothing less.” In the midst of this excitement Nelson ran up to Grant, whose face was pale, but grim and set as ever. “You couldn’t help it, Rod,” said the Oakdale captain soothingly. “They won’t get any more. The bases are clean now.”