tection. The umpire called, "Play," and Nelson, cheered by the
little crowd from Oakdale, stepped out with his bat.

The Oakdale captain found a place at Springer's side. "Phil," he said
in a low tone, "I want you to be ready to go in any time. I've decided
to start the game with Grant, but we may need you any moment."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BOY ON THE BENCH.

For a moment Phil was dazed; then a sudden feeling of relief flashed
over him. He would not have to face those dangerous Clearport batters
unless Grant should be knocked out, in which case, no matter what
happened after he went in, all the blame could be thrust upon Rodney.

But this feeling of satisfaction lasted only a few seconds; gradually
resentment and wrath crowded it out, and he sat there eaten by the
bitterest emotion. Not for a moment had he dreamed Eliot would think
of starting the game with the Texan on the slab, for this day he, Phil,
was to be given the opportunity to redeem himself. It was an outrage,
an injustice of such magnitude that his soul flamed with wrath. What
if Grant were to succeed in holding the Clearporters down? In that
case, of course, Eliot would permit him to pitch the game through to
the finish, leaving on the bench the lad who had expected to do the
twirling. And that would mean further glory for the chap Springer had
thoughtlessly coached for the position of second pitcher; would mean
that, if he pitched at all in future games, Phil himself would be the
second string man.

Feeling that he could not contain himself, he was turning to Eliot
when, to his amazement, he saw the fellows rising from the bench and
starting toward the field; for while he had been thus bitterly absorbed
the first three Oakdalers had faced Oakes, the Clearport pitcher, and
not one of them had reached first base. Phil could scarcely believe it
possible that the riotous condition of his mind had prevented him from
realizing that the game was in progress, but such had been the case.

And now, hot and cold by turns, he saw Rod Grant fling aside his
brand-new crimson sweater and jog forth, smiling, to pit his skill and
brains against the local sluggers.

"I hate him!" hissed the miserable lad beneath his breath. "I hope
they pound him to death right off the reel."

A few moments later his heart gave a tremendous leap of joy, and he
almost shouted with satisfaction when Boothby led off by smashing the
first ball Grant handed up. It was a