“Slide!” cried the coach, and, as Bill had done, so did Pete, but with more cause. On came the ball, thrown swiftly by the second baseman. Pete was hurtling forward through a cloud of dust, his hand eagerly stretched out to feel the plate. His fingers touched it, and a welcome thrill ran through him, just as he heard the thud of the ball in the catcher’s glove. Down came the horsehide on his shoulder with vicious force. “How’s it?” excitedly yelled the catcher to the umpire. There was a moment’s silence, and the players and crowd hardly breathed. It seemed as if the weight of kingdoms hung on the decision, and Pete lay there waiting. “Safe!” decided the umpire, and yells of delight mingled with those of chagrin. Westfield had the game now by two runs and the pennant remained with them. Oh what rejoicing there was! No need to play the game out farther. Indeed it could scarcely have been done had the coach or captain desired it, so wild with delight were the members of the nine. “Oh you Smith boys!” was the gladsome cry, and around our heroes there danced a wild and enthusiastic mob of players of the game. Horns tooted, rattles added their din, old men, youths and maidens swelled the riot with their voices, the shrill tones of the girls sounding high above the hoarser notes of triumph. “We win! We win!” cried Graydon, hugging the rather grave and sedate coach, and whirling him about in a dance. “Yes, and at the last minute,” added Mr. Windam. “That was a lucky fall of Bill Smith’s.” “There was crooked work somewhere,” said the captain in a low voice. “Those glasses never fell into the cannon, and I know whom to suspect.” “Then keep it to yourself,” advised the coach, and Graydon did so. It seemed impossible that it was all over, that the school baseball season was at an end, and that Westfield still had the pennant, yet such was the case. Already the crowds were leaving the grandstands. Students were gathering in groups to cheer over, or sing about, the victory. The team was hugged and hustled here and there. The Smith boys and their mates were lifted to the shoulders of their fellows and paraded about the diamond. The Tuckertons had given a cheer for the victors, and, in turn, had been cheered for their plucky fight. “And to think that this is the end of the season,” remarked Bill regretfully to his brothers, as they walked over toward the gymnasium. “Oh, but it will soon be fall, and then for the good old pigskin punts!” exclaimed Pete. “That’s so. I wonder if we can make the eleven?” said Cap. “I hope we can.” “We’ll try, anyhow,” declared Bill. How they tried, and with what success they had will be told of in the third volume of this series to be called “Those Smith Boys on the Gridiron; or A Touchdown in Time.” In that book we will meet with our school friends again, and learn how they played several great games. As Bill and his brothers strolled across the campus they saw a group of girls coming toward them.