Sommers was signaling. Lefty shook his head to rid himself of that hateful chimera. Misunderstanding, the catcher quickly changed the sign. The pitcher delivered the ball called for first, and it went through Sommers like a fine shot through an open sieve. Nuccio scored from third with ease, Bemis and O'Reilley advancing at the same time. The Wind Jammers roared from the bench. Cap'n Wiley threw up his hands. "Furl every stitch!" cried the manager of the visitors. "Batten the hatches! The storm is upon us! It's going to be a rip-sizzler. I'm afraid the wreck will be a total loss." Covering the plate, Lefty took the ball from Sommers. "How did you happen to cross me?" asked the catcher. "It was my fault," was the prompt acknowledgment; "but it won't happen again." "I hope not," said Sommers. He wanted to suggest that Locke should retire at once and let Matthews take up the pitching, but he refrained. The southpaw was doing some serious thinking as he walked back to the mound. However well his newly acquired delivery had seemed to serve him on other occasions, he was convinced that it would not do now; either he must pitch in his own natural way and do his best, or he must retire and let Dade Matthews try to check the overconfident aggressors. If he retired, he would prolong the uncertainty in his own mind; he would leave himself in doubt as to whether or not there was any prospect of his return to the Big League as a twirler worthy of his hire. More than doubt, he realized, he would be crushed by a conviction that he was really down and out. "I've pampered my arm long enough," he decided. "I'm going to find out if there's anything left in it." Perhaps the decision was unwise. The result of the game with the Wind Jammers was of no importance, but Locke felt that, for his own peace of mind, he must know what stuff was left in him. And there was no one present with authority, no coach, no counselor, to restrain him. There was a strange, new gleam in his eyes when he once more toed the slab. His faint smile had not vanished, but it had taken lines of grimness. Schepps tapped the plate with his bat. "Come on, pal," he begged; "don't blow up. Gimme one of der real kind, an' lemme have a swat at it." The crowd was silent; even the chattering darkies had ceased their noise. Only the Wind Jammers jubilated on the bench and the coaching lines. Poising himself, Locke caught Sommer's signal, and nodded. Then he swung his arm with the old free, supple, whiplash motion, and the ball that left his fingers cut the air like a streak of white, taking a really remarkable hop. Schepps' "swat" was wasted. "Now, dat's like it!" cried the sandlotter. "Where've you been keepin' dat kind, old boy? Gimme a duplicate."