When Mark stepped up to the home plate it was with a determination to “do or die” right then and there. He grasped the ash stick firmly, planted his feet and took a good, hard hold of his nerves. The Cuban pitcher eyed him curiously. He was a “new proposition” and the pitcher hardly knew how to handle him. He stepped back, gave the catcher a sign, and delivered a swift out curve. Mark let it go by. “Ball one!” called the umpire. “That’s right, take your time!” yelled Frank. He was standing up and so was everybody else in the stand. In came the ball again and this time Mark struck at it but missed. “Strike one!” A loud yelling went up from the Cubans. Mark took a firmer grip than ever. It must be confessed that he was in an agony of mind. What if he should “fan out?” He was certain that club would never forgive him. And he was equally certain that he should never forgive himself. And then came a ball waist high and directly over the plate, a beautiful ball, and just where Mark wanted it. Around came the bat in one swift drive. There was a crack, and the ball went sailing down into deep center field. On the instant the crowd in the stand were yelling like so many demons and Frank was dancing up and down as if he had suddenly gone crazy. Mark had reached first--he was already on his way to second, and still the center fielder was chasing after that ball, which kept bouncing on and on just out of his reach. One runner crossed the home plate and the second followed almost on his heels. The catcher was yelling and so was the captain of the Palmas but nobody heard them. Mark, his breath coming thick and fast was fairly leaping through the air on his way to third. Here the baseman made a feint as if to catch the ball and Mark ducked and slid in to the bag. “Go on! Go on!” yelled the coach, and a hundred others, and Mark glanced back, to see that the fielder was just picking up the ball. How he got to his feet he never knew, but off he started for home, amid a yelling that was louder than ever. He came over like the wind, to sink exhausted near the “bench,”--and then the ball came in. The game was won! “Hurrah for Mark!” Frank fairly screamed, and made a wild leap into the field, followed by Sam and Darry, and even the professor, and in another moment the enclosure was black with people. All the Americans were shouting loudly, while the Cubans had but little to say. “He must be a first-class professional,” said one Cuban. “Nothing of the kind,” retorted Frank, who heard the remark. “He is only an academy player. He never played on a professional team in his life.” The players on the Roosevelt nine were not slow in congratulating Mark, and had he allowed it they would have carried him around the field on their shoulders. But Mark was too modest for this, and as soon as possible escaped to the dressing room. “Oh, say, but it was great!” burst out Darry, as he wrung Mark’s hand. “Better than anything I ever saw at Lakeview.”