At a signal the next man to bat stepped away from the plate, and Joe had
the privilege of warming up by sending three hot ones to the catcher.

"He'll put 'em over all right enough!" cried one of his friends.

"That's what he will!" returned another.

"Not much! He'll be snowed under!"

"This is our winning day!"

So the cries continued until the umpire held up his hand for silence.

"He's going to make an announcement!" cried a number of the spectators.

"Ladies and gentlemen," roared the umpire, removing his cap, "Matson now
pitching for the All-Americans."

A howl went up from the stands, made up in about equal parts of derision
and applause. Derision because the All-American team must, they figured,
be scared to death when they had to send their greatest player into the
game. Whether they won or lost it was a great compliment to the Denver
team. The applause came from the genuine sportsmen who knew the famous
pitcher by reputation and welcomed the chance to see him in action.

The three men on the bases were dancing about like dervishes in the hope
of rattling the newcomer. They did not know Joe.

Never cooler than when the strain was greatest and the need most urgent,
Joe bent down to pick up the ball. As he did so, he touched it, apparently
accidentally, against his right heel.

It was a signal meant for Denton, the third baseman, who was watching him
like a hawk.

Joe took up his position in the box, took a grip on the ball, but instead
of delivering it to the batter turned suddenly on his left heel, as though
to snap it down to first. The Denver player at that bag, who had taken a
lead of several feet, made a frantic slide back to safety.

But the ball never got to first, for Joe had swung himself all the way
round and shot the ball like a bullet to Denton at third. The local player
at third had been watching eagerly the outcome of the supposed throw to
first and was caught completely unawares.

Down came Denton's hand, clapping the ball on his back, while the victim
stood dazed as though in a trance.

It was the prettiest kind of "inside work," and even the home crowd went
into convulsions of laughter as the trapped player came sheepishly in from
third to the bench.

McRae was beaming, and Robbie's rubicund face became several degrees
redder under the strain of his emotion.

"Say, is that boy class, John?" Robbie gurgled, as soon as he could
speak.

"Never saw a niftier thing on the ball