He led Bill to the bench, and indeed the pitcher was a trifle dizzy, and his head felt queer, for he had fallen harder than he had supposed. The other players, finding that nothing serious was the matter went back to their practice. In the grandstands the singing and cheering was multiplied. Crowds of pretty girls, eager youths, demure chaperones, old grads, young grads and mere spectators continued to arrive until every seat was filled. “It’s going to be a great game,” murmured Cap, who, finding that his brother was apparently all right, resumed, his catching with Mersfeld. “I never saw such a crowd!” “It’s money in the treasury whether we win the pennant or not,” declared J. Evans Green, the business-like manager. “But we _are_ going to win!” declared Cap emphatically. “Keep ’em guessing, Mersfeld, and you’ll do. Now when I put three fingers on my mitt so, let me have a swift drop,” and he went on with his code of signals. The conferences between the respective captains had ended, and Burke, head of the Tuckerton Varsity nine, signalled to his men to come in from practice, as they were to bat first. Graydon assembled his team for a few final instructions. “Sorry you’re not playing with us to-day,” he said to poor Bill, who was sitting on the bench. The cut in his head had stopped bleeding. “You’re no more sorry than I am,” declared the pitcher ruefully. “But it can’t be helped.” “We may have to call on you yet,” said the coach, “if they knock Mersfeld and Newton out of the box.” “I’m afraid I couldn’t do much good,” was Bill’s doleful answer. “Play ball!” howled the umpire, and the players took their places, Mersfeld catching the new white horsehide sphere the official tossed to him. The first ball which Mersfeld delivered was cleanly hit away out in centrefield, and when it came back the batter was on second base. There was a wild riot of cheers at this auspicious opening for Tuckerton, and a grim look on the faces of the Westfield players. “That looks bad,” murmured Bill, as he watched Mersfeld wind up for his next delivery. The pitcher was visibly nervous, and Cap, seeing it, made an excuse to walk out to him. “Keep cool!” he whispered, “or you won’t last.” Mersfeld stiffened, and struck out the next man. But the third one got a three bagger out of him, and the following one a single. When the inning came to a close there were three runs chalked up for the rivals of our friends, and there was only gloom for the home team. Nor was it dissipated by the triumphant songs their opponents sang. One run was the best that Graydon’s men could do on their first trial, though captain and coach pleaded earnestly with them. “I guess they’ve got our number,” murmured Pete to his brother as the latter donned his protector and mask. “Oh, don’t be so gloomy,” was the advice. Mersfeld went from bad to worse, and at the beginning of the fourth inning the captain and coach held a consultation. “We’ve got to do something,” said Graydon.