“Don’t you fool yourself,” murmured Bill, as he went to the plate. Hedden, his rival pitcher, regarded him with a mocking smile. Bill was not especially strong in stick work, but somehow he felt that he was going to make good to-day. He saw a ball coming, and sized it up for a slow out. Knowing the peculiarity of the curve which Hedden pitched Bill stepped right into it. His bat met the horsehide squarely, and with a “Ping!” that sent a thrill of joy not only to his heart but to the hearts of his brothers and friends. “Right on the nose! Oh, what a poke!” cried Whistle-Breeches who rejoiced for Bill over what he himself could not do. Away sailed the ball, well over the centre fielder’s head, away sped Bill legging it for first with all the speed of which he was capable. “Run! Run! Run!” “Come on in, Cap!” “Oh what a poke!” “Pretty! Pretty!” The crowd on the stands was yelling and jumping up and down. Old men were tossing their hats into the air, clapping each other on the back, making friends with strangers, and telling each other that it reminded them of the time when they were boys. Bill swung around second, as Cap fairly leaped over home plate, bringing in the tying run. The Tuckerton players were wild with chagrin. The game was being pulled out of the fire—snatched from them at the moment when they thought they saw a safe victory. The centre fielder nearly had the ball now, and Bill was heading for third base. “Go on! Go on!” “Home! Home!” This and other advice was shouted at him. He gave a quick glance around, and decided that he would risk it by going on to the last bag. It was a narrow chance, almost too narrow, and Bill had to slide so far that his uniform took on a new shade, and his mouth and eyes were filled with dust and gravel, for the ball whizzed into the hands of the eager baseman. “Safe!” decided the umpire after a breathless run to third that he might see the outcome. The score was now tied! There was a howl of disgust from the Tuckerton crowd but the decision stood, and there was wild rejoicing on the part of the Westfield throng. “Now then, Pete, it’s up to you,” said the coach solemnly as the third member of the Smith boys trio stepped to the bat. “If you don’t bring Bill in at least, I’ll never speak to you again.” “I’ll do my best,” declared the doughty little shortstop. He was one of the best men who could have been up in an emergency of this kind, with two out, a man on third and the winning run still needed. For Pete was as cool as the proverbial cucumber.