The seventh inning was over in remarkably short order. There was but one base hit, made by the Cubans, and this runner “died” at third. Mark had next to nothing to do at second, nor did he come to the bat. But the other substitute came to the plate, and when he “fanned the air” for three strikes a deep groan went up. “The subs are no good! Might as well give up the game!” cried some of the hasty ones. In the next inning the Cubans managed by good luck to score two runs. In this inning Mark might have put one of the runners out at second, but the ball was thrown so high up that only his finger tip touched it. Yet this counted as an error for him and the other players looked far from pleased. “I knew it,” muttered Hockley to Sam. “He can’t play--he isn’t in practice.” “Jake Hockley, you ought to be ashamed!” retorted Sam, and then turned his back on the lank youth. With the score 8 to 6 in their favor the Palmas came to the bat for the last time. One man went out on strikes and the next on a foul. Then came the third, a heavy-set fellow, who “lined it out” straight for the pitcher. It was a “hot” ball, far too hot for that pitcher to take, even in a last inning, and he hardly made a move for it. But Mark made a leap, and almost before the spectators realized what was up, he held the sphere in his left hand and the umpire had called “out!” “Hurrah!” yelled Frank. “That’s the stuff!” And the others followed in a cheer, while Professor Strong’s face wore a broad smile. This game of ball made him feel a good deal like a boy again. “Two runs to tie the score and three to win the game,” said more than one player of the Roosevelts as they took their positions at the “bench.” “Oh, we must get together and do something. We can’t allow these Cubans to win the series.” The first player to the bat was the left fielder. He was usually counted a careful hitter and nobody was surprised when he reached first base in safety. But the others were sorry he had not made third, or at least second. There followed an out on strikes and aided by a short passed ball, the runner reached third, taking desperate chances. Then came a short hit which took the batter to first by “fielder’s choice,” the ball being thrown in to cover the home plate. But the man on third was wise and stayed there. “Hilgard to the bat, Robertson on deck!” sang out the scorer, and Mark’s heart gave a thump. Was it possible that the result of this game was to depend upon him? In another moment he knew, for Hilgard went out on strikes, amid a mad yelling from the Cubans. There were now two out, so the whole result of that contest rested upon Mark’s shoulders. “You must do it, Mark!” yelled Frank, at the top of his lungs. “Go in, old boy, and win! Whoop her up for old Lakeview!” And then the others took up the cry, that is, all but Hockley, who, true to his nickname, remained as glum as ever.