Cap looked an indignant protest, and hesitated as he tossed the ball back. It was as clean a strike as could be desired, but it was not the first time the official had favored Vandalia that day. The game was on their grounds, and the rivalry that existed between the two cities, located on either side of the Waydell river, was carried even into baseball. “Make him give you a nice one, Flub,” called some of his friends. “He’ll walk you, anyhow,” added another sarcastically. Bill Smith gritted his teeth but said nothing. He shook his head as his brother signalled for the same kind of a ball, and sent in a swift drop. Flub bit at it, and swung viciously. “Strike one!” sounded sweet to the ears of the pitcher and catcher. There was a vicious “ping” as the next ball was sailing over the plate, and for a moment the hearts of the Freeport nine and the hopes of their supporters were like lead, but they turned to rejoicing an instant later, as they saw the ball shoot high over the extreme left grandstand, and disappear. “Foul strike!” called the umpire, as he tossed a new ball to Bill. Cap signalled for the fast drop, and his brother nodded in assent. “Three strikes! Batter out!” was yelled a moment later and Flub threw down his stick in disgust, and walked toward the outfield. “Now’s our last chance!” exclaimed Bill to John, as he came running in, while the teams changed places. “We ought to get at least three runs—in fact we need ’em if we’re going to win, for they’ve got three of their best hitters up when they come for their last dips. But if we can get a lead of four runs we’ll be all right.” “Yes, we’ll be all right if Bateye doesn’t go to sleep again,” grumbled Cap. “Say, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded as the unlucky rightfielder filed in. “Why—er I—that is I—” “Oh, out with it! You’re holding that talk as long as you held the ball. Don’t do it again!” and Cap, who never could be ill-natured for very long, condescended to smile, while Bateye promised to do better in the future. “Now Doc, show ’em how to make a home run,” suggested Pete, as Harry or “Doc” Norton, dubbed with the medical term by virtue of his father’s profession, came up to the bat. Doc tried hard, but only got a single. He was advanced to third when Norton Tonkin rapped out a nice two bagger, but that was as far as luck went for the Freeport nine that day. The next three players struck out under the masterly pitching of Nifty Pell, and the three Smith Boys did not get a chance. “Well, we’re one run to the good. If we can hold ’em down the game’s ours,” observed Pete, as he walked out with his brothers, followed by the rest of the team. “It’s up to you, Bill.” “I know that, Sawed-off,” was the answer. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t play the whole game. Crimps! But I _would_ like to win this game! They’ve been making so many cracks about putting it all over us!”