These were some of the yells that greeted Cap’s performance. But he did not stay to listen to them. On he sped for first and rounded the initial bag with a swing that carried him well on to second. On and on he went, running as he had never run before since he felt that on him now depended the championship. “Run! Run you lobster!” “Run, you dear old goat!” “Run, Cap, run!” “Come on, boy! Oh, a pretty one!” The grandstand was rocking and swaying with the stamping of feet. The cheers were deafening. The Vandalia players were almost stupefied. The Freeporters were dancing up and down in a wild delirium of joy. The rightfielder was running after the ball like mad. He had picked it up. He was throwing it in. Cap was speeding toward third. He had passed it when the fielded ball was in the air. Could he beat it home? That was what everybody wanted to know. On and on ran the player. Nearer and nearer came the ball. The second baseman had it now. He threw it toward the Vandalia catcher, who, with feet well braced apart was waiting for it with outstretched hands. Cap was almost exhausted. His legs felt like wooden ones, but they kept going like the pistons of an engine. “Come on, boy! Come on! Come on!” “Oh you Cap!” “Beat it! Beat it!” Cap dropped like a shot and slid, feet foremost. The catcher reached forward. There was a vicious “ping!” as the ball landed in his big mit. There was a moment of intense anxiety. A cloud of dust hid catcher, runner and umpire from sight. And then, from this mist of dirt, in which three figures could dimly be seen moving about, came this one word: “Safe!” Oh, what a howling there was! What cheers, what yells, what thumpings on the back, what improvised war-dances, what shakings of hands! For Freeport had won, almost on the last chance and had the pennant. No wonder Cap Smith was overwhelmed with praise as he walked panting to the bench. “Say, I guess there’s something in those Smith boys after all,” remarked Mr. Flint, who had torn his score card to bits as he wildly whooped himself hoarse while watching the home run. “Well, they might be worse,” conceded Mr. Henderson. CHAPTER V OFF FOR WESTFIELD Whether it was because their trick of putting holes in the Smith boys’ boat did not work, or because they wanted to get even with the brothers on general principles was not made clear, but certain it was, that a few days after the closing ball game, Beantoe and Spider made another attempt to perpetrate something on our heroes. “This time it will come off all right,” Spider had assured his crony. “It ought to; we spent time enough on it,” said the stumbling lad. “I certainly hope it does.” With much labor and secrecy the two conspirators had made a lot of sharpened stakes, and tied stout cords to them. They had also prepared a quantity of molasses and lampblack.