Westfield was at the bat, and it must have been the effect of Bill’s pitching for every man up made a hit, and the bases were soon filled. But only two runs came in, for the opposing team took a brace at an opportune time for themselves, and in season to prevent too heavy scoring by the Westfield lads. “Now only six runs to beat ’em!” called Captain Graydon cheerfully, as though that was a mere trifle. “Keep up the good work, Bill, and we’ll dedicate a chapel window to you.” Bill did. He surpassed even his own previous pitching records, and did not allow a hit in that inning, while in their half of it Westfield got one, making the score four to eight in their opponents’ favor. “Now for the lucky seventh!” called the coach, when that inning started. “Don’t let them get a run, Bill, and help our fellows to pull in about a dozen.” Bill smiled, and—struck out the first two men. Then one of the heavy hitters managed to get under a neat little up shoot, and sent it far out over the left fielder’s head. It was good for two bags, and the next man brought the runner in, to the anguish of Bill, who feared he was slumping, as there had been two hits off him in succession. But with a gritting of his teeth he held his nerves in check, and that ended the scoring for the first half of the seventh. “Now, boys, eat ’em up!” pleaded coach and captain as Bill and his teammates came in. They did, to the extent of three runs, which seemed wonderful in view of what had previously been done, and there was a chance for wild yelling and cheering on the part of the home rooters. With the score seven to nine, when the eighth opened, it looked better for Westfield’s chances, and when she further sweetened her tallies with another run, brought in by Pete, there was more joyful rioting. “They mustn’t get another mark!” stipulated the captain when the final inning opened. “Not a run, Bill.” “Not if I can help it!” the pitcher promised. From a corner Mersfeld watched his successful rival—watched him with envious eyes. From the grandstand Bondy also watched, and muttered: “I won’t fail next time. I’ll spoil your record if it’s possible!” Amid a wild chorus of songs and school cries Bill faced his next opponent. He proved an easy victim, as did the lad following, but from the manner in which the third man began hitting fouls it seemed to argue that he would eventually make a hit. And a hit at this stage might mean anything. For Westfield needed two runs to beat, and they were going to be hard enough to secure—every member of the team knew that. It was the fourth foul the batter had knocked. The others had been impossible to get, though Cap had tried for them. Now, as he tossed off his mask, and stared wildly up into the air to gage the ball he heard cries of: “Can’t get it! Can’t get it!”