“We’ve got to save you two for a pinch,” explained Graydon to the catcher, just before the game was called. “Begin to warm-up again after the third inning.” The preliminaries were over, and the Tuckerton men took their places on the bench, the home team having last chance at the bat. The Westfield nine walked to the field, and Bill and Cap took their places with the other substitutes. “I wonder what’s up?” mused Mersfeld as he was told to go to the box. “He must have the changed glasses and Mindam and Graydon have seen how punk he is even in practice. Here’s where I get my chance!” The game began, and the first crack out of the box netted a two-bagger for the initial hitter of the Tuckerton nine. Mersfeld smiled a sickly smile as the ball came back to him. “It’s all right,” called Denby reassuringly from behind the bat. “We’ll get this fellow.” Mersfeld did strike him out, after the man had made two foul strikes, and, feeling a trifle nervous the twirler issued walking papers to the next hitter, who had a high average for stick work. “Work for this man,” signalled the catcher to the pitcher, but Mersfeld, as he was about to throw was aware that the first hitter was stealing to third. He shot to the baseman quickly—but wildly. It went over his head, in among a crowd of spectators, and before the ball could be fielded in the man was home with the first run of the game, and with only one out. What a wild burst of songs and cries of gladness came from the stands where the visitors were! Flags and banners waved, and the shrill voices of the girls seemed to mock the Westfield players. “Starting in bad,” murmured Bill to Cap. “Oh, well, all our fellows are a trifle nervous. I guess we’ll make good.” Mersfeld redeemed himself a few seconds later by striking out the next man up, and with two down, the last man knocked a little pop fly. It looked good but Pete got under it, and had it safely in his hands when the runner was ten feet from first. “Well, now to see what we can do,” remarked Graydon as he came in from first with his men eager to get a chance at the sticks. They did not do so much, for there was an excellent battery against them, and one run was all they could tally. But it tied the score, and gave the home rooters something to shout for. Whether it was nervousness or whether his conscience troubled him was not made known, but Mersfeld seemed to get worse as the game progressed. His throws to the basemen were wild, and he practically lost control of the ball, while his curves broke too late, and the opposing team readily got on to them. “Oh, we’ve got the pitcher’s ‘Angora’ all right!” chanted the visiting rooters, that being the classical term for “goat” or nerve.