mely pleasing to his friends and was the
recipient of an embarrassing ovation when he walked to the bench.

"Here's our last chance," said Chub a trifle nervously as he ran in.
"You're up, Bacon. Do something now, for goodness sake!"

Well, not to prolong the suspense, Bacon did something. He struck out;
struck out as miserably as though his side didn't need two or three
runs the worst way in the world. And he went back to the bench and Chub
and the others looking ready to cry.

"Hard luck," said Chub, striving to seem cheerful.

"Rotten batting!" muttered Bacon angrily.

Thurlow brought hope back, however, by getting to first on second
baseman's juggling of a liner. Pryor went to bat with instructions to
bunt, tried it twice and then went out to third baseman. There were two
out, a man on first and the tag end of the batting list was in sight. On
the Hammond side the cheering was loud and contented. On the opposite
side the brown flags were drooping dejectedly and the stands were
emptying. Clearly, defeat was to be Ferry Hill's portion to-day.

But Kirby wasn't ready to acknowledge it. At least, he told himself, he
would have one good bang at that ball. He could do no more than go out.
So he slammed away at two deliveries, waited while a third went by and
then hammered out a clean two-base-hit that sent Thurlow ambling across
the plate for the sixth tally. Somehow, that seemed to change the entire
aspect of things. Homeward-bound spectators paused and edged back to the
diamond. Ferry Hill's cheers, which for the last five minutes had been
weak and quite evidently "machine made," now broke out afresh and the
air became full of waving brown flags.

It was "Porter at bat!" now, and Chub was whispering intensely in Roy's
ear, accompanying him to the plate and parting from him finally with a
slap on the shoulder that was heard across on the stand.

Now, if there's one thing in the whole wide world calculated to give a
chap a fit of nervous prostration it is to go to bat in the last half of
the ninth inning with the knowledge that on his ability or inability to
hit safely hangs victory or defeat. Roy had that knowledge, and little
chills crept up and down his spine when he considered it. So he tried
not to. He tried to forget everything save that he was there to hit the
ball; everything save that and what Chub had whispered in his ear at the
last.

"'When you're up against a bigger man, Roy, grin as hard as you can