They had been remarkably successful in defeating the teams they had faced, but Locke felt sure that, in spite of the conglomerate and freakish appearance of the Wind Jammers, it was not going to be an easy thing to take a fall out of Cap'n Wiley's aggregation of talent. The self-styled "Marine Marvel" had a record; with players culled from the brambles as he knocked about the country, he had, in former days, put to shame many a strong minor league outfit that had patronizingly and somewhat disdainfully consented to give him an engagement on an off date. Unless the eccentric and humorously boastful manager of the Wind Jammers had lost much of his judgment and cunning during the recent years that he had been out of the public eye, the fastest independent team would have to keep awake and get a fair share of the breaks in order to trounce him. Locke warmed up his arm a little, but, even though he felt scarcely a twinge of the lameness and stiffness that had given him so much apprehension, he was cautious. At one time, when the trouble was the worst, he had not been able to lift his left hand to his mouth. A massage expert in Fernandon had done much for him, and he hoped that he had done not a little for himself by perfecting a new style of delivery that did not put so much strain upon his shoulder. Still, until he should be forced to the test, he could never feel quite sure that he would be the same puzzle to the finest batsmen that he had once been. And it must be confessed that he had looked forward with some dread to the day when that test should come. Suddenly he resolved that, in a way, he would meet the test at once. Doubtless the Wind Jammers were batters of no mean caliber, for Wiley had always got together a bunch of sluggers. "I'll do it," he decided; "I'll go the limit. If I can't do that now, after the rest I've had and the doctoring my arm has received, there's not one chance in a thousand that I'll ever be able to pitch in fast company again." CHAPTER VII THE TEST Nearly all Fernandon turned out to the game. Many residents of the town, as well as a large number of the visitors from the North, came in carriages and automobiles. The covered reserved seats were filled, and, shielding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, an eager crowd packed the bleachers. On the sandy grass ground back of third base a swarm of chattering, grinning colored people sat and sprawled. Holding themselves proudly aloof from the negroes, a group of lanky, sallow "poor whites," few of whom could read or write, were displaying their ignorance by their remarks about the game and the players. The mayor of the town had consented to act as umpire. At four o'clock he called "play." "Now we're off!" sang Cap'n Wiley, waltzing gayly forth to the coaching position near third. "Here's where we hoist anchor and get away with a fair wind." Nuccio, the olive-skinned Italian third baseman, selected his bat and trotted to the pan, grinning at Locke.