“We’ll let you have a runner,” proposed the captain of the Vandalia nine. It was the least he could do. Doc’s foot was punctured in the fleshy part, and, after it had been treated, the game went on. Flub came in on a little fly by Nifty Pell, and that put the Vandalias one run ahead whereat there was great rejoicing. “We’ve got to do ’em now or never,” declared Cap grimly, when he and his mates came up for their turn. They tried hard, but fate was against them, though Bill was called out at first on a close decision which even the crowd characterized as “rotten.” But it stood, and when that inning was over the score was two to one, in favor of Vandalia. “Well, we have one more look in, and then—” Cap paused suggestively. “I can see that pennant going across the river,” announced Bateye gloomily. “Say, you never were any good at seeing things in the daytime,” declared Bill. “You want to take another look, Bateye. We’re going to win!” There was a positiveness in Bill’s tones that seemed to infuse itself into the spirits of his teammates. There was a brief consultation among the Freeport players, and exhortation from the captain and manager, and then the final inning began. Vandalia played desperately—played for blood, and got it—in the shape of one run, putting them two ahead. It was due to an error of the centre fielder, who slipped when he had a nice fly in his hands, and there was a groan of anguish. Then the Freeport players settled grimly down, and Bill struck out three in succession. “Three runs to win!” said Cap in tense tones as he took off his mask and chest protector. “We’ve just got to get them.” Pete brought in one, and after a desperate race when he was nearly caught on third, Norton Tonkin landed another, sliding home in a cloud of dust when the third baseman threw the ball to the catcher, just above the latter’s head, which error tied the score. “Now for the winning run!” said Pete, as his elder brother went to the bat. But the chances were against the Freeport team getting it, as there were two out, and the Vandalia pitcher was lasting well. Still the score was tied and there would be another inning if Cap did not make good. “But I’m going to bring in a run,” he told himself grimly, as he rubbed some dirt on his hands, and took a firm grip of the stick. The ball came whizzing toward him. He was half minded to swing at it, but a signal he had caught passing between the pitcher and catcher warned him, and he let it pass. “Strike!” called the umpire. Cap opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. “You won’t fool me again,” he called to the man in the box, with a grim smile. “Whack!” That was Cap’s stick meeting the horsehide. Out sailed the sphere, a long, low straight drive into right field—away out among the daisies. “Oh, wow!” “Oh, pretty!” “Oh, a sweet one!” “Run, you old war-horse! Run, you scob! Run!” “A homer! A homer!” “All the way round! Come on in!”