Jones had appeared to be a trifle slender in street clothes, but now Lefty could see that he was the possessor of fine muscles and whipcord sinews. There was no ounce of unnecessary flesh upon him anywhere; he was like an athlete trained to the minute and hardened for an enduring test by long and continuous work. There seemed little likelihood that protracted strain would expose a flaw. He had speed and stamina; if he possessed the required skill and brains, there was every reason to think that he might "deliver the goods." With the advent of the silent man upon the mound, Locke's attention became divided between doubts about himself and interest in the performance of the mute. Hampton, who followed Norris, was quite as helpless against the dazzling speed of Jones; he could not even foul the ball. "Great smoke, Locke!" he exclaimed, pausing on his way to center field. "That man's a terror! He seems to groove them all, but you can't see them come over." "Perhaps he can't keep it up," said Lefty. "I hope not. If he does, we've got to win on the runs we've made already; there'll be no more scoring for us. It's up to you to hold them down." The southpaw held them in the fourth, but he did so by working his head fully as much as his arm. By this time he had learned something of the hitting weaknesses of the Wind Jammers, and he played upon those weaknesses successfully. To his teammates and the spectators the performance was satisfactory; to him it proved only that his brain, if not his arm, was still in perfect condition. Mysterious Jones came back with two strikeouts; in fact, he struck Sommers, the third man, out also; but the whistling, shooting sphere went through the catcher, and Sommers raced to first on the error. This brought Locke up, and he was eager to hit against Jones. He missed the first one cleanly, but fouled the next two, which was better than any one else had done. Then the silent man put something more on the ball, and Lefty failed to touch it. "Nice little pitcher, don't you think?" inquired Cap'n Wiley blandly. "He behaves well, very well," admitted the southpaw. The Grays implored Locke to keep the enemy in hand; the crowd entreated him. This was the game they desired to win. To them it was a struggle of vital importance, and the winning or losing of it was the only question of moment. They did not dream of something a thousand times more momentous involving Lefty Locke. Loyal to the team and its supporters, the southpaw could not take needless chances of losing, no matter how much he longed to be put upon his mettle and forced to the last notch. Therefore he continued to work his head while on the slab. Schaeffer fouled out, Jones fanned indifferently, and Nuccio popped to shortstop. "Lucky boy!" called Wiley. "But things won't always break so well for you. You'll have to go your limit before the game is over." "I hope so," said Lefty.