“Throw it! Throw it! You can take a picture of it after the game!” howled Captain John Smith of the Freeport nine, as he danced about behind home plate, and saw Tom Evans come in from third, and noticed Jensen legging it around from second. Bateye threw, and, mingling with the cries of the players and the yells of the crowd, there were groans of anguish as the ball passed high over the second baseman’s head, who jumped for it in vain. Bill Smith, the wiry little pitcher, made a successful grab for the horsehide as it bounced on the ground, captured it, and hurled it to third, just in time to catch Jensen there. “Out!” yelled the umpire. “Aw, say, I beat it a mile!” protested the panting runner. “What’s the matter with you, Foster?” “Out,” said the umpire again, waving his hand to indicate that Jensen was to leave the bag. “Say, I’ll leave it to anybody if I—” “Come on in,” invited Rube Mantell, captain of the Vandalias in a weary tone, and Jake shuffled to the bench. “Mighty lucky stop, Bill,” called Pete, or “Sawed-off” Smith, to his brother the pitcher. The small-statured lad again took his position at short stop which he had left for a moment. “I wonder what’s the matter with Bateye to-day? That’s the second error he’s made.” “Oh, I guess he got a bit rattled with so many howling at him,” spoke Bill good-naturedly. “Come on now, Pete. There are two down, and we ought to wallop ’em easy when it comes our turn. Watch me strike Flub Madison out.” Bill, who was the best pitcher the Freeport team had secured in several seasons, again took his place in the box, while his brother John, or “Cap” from the likeness of his name to that of the old Indian fighter, resumed his mask, after shooting a few indignant looks in the direction of the unfortunate Bateye Jones. “He’s got to improve if he wants to stay on the team,” murmured Cap Smith as he waited for the next ball. “I s’pose he’ll excuse himself by saying the sun was in his eyes, or something like that. Or else that he can’t see well in the daytime. He certainly can see good at night. Old Bateye—well, here goes for the next one,” and Cap plumped his fist into the big mitt, and signalled to his pitching brother to send in a slow out curve to Flub Madison who took his place at the plate. It was the ending of the eighth inning, and the score was seven to six, in favor of the Freeport lads. The game was far from won, for their opponents were playing strong, and still had another, and last, chance at the bat. To win meant much for the team on which the Smith Boys played, for they wanted to capture the championship of the County League, this being one of the last games of the season. “One ball!” hoarsely called the umpire, as Bill unwound, and sent the horsehide sphere plump into the mitt of his older brother.