e fielders were running swiftly
backward, but there wasn't a chance in a hundred of their catching
it. Bat flung aside and toe-clips digging into the ground, Blake was
speeding toward first. Before the ball hit the turf he had rounded the
sack. By the time Pete Oliver had recovered it and lined it in, the
runner was panting on second.

"Got him going! Got him going!" shrieked Conners, delightedly. "Get after
it, Peanut. Smash it on the nose and bring in Blakie!"

His team-mates added their jubilations to his, and a bedlam of shrill
advice, mingled with fresh joshing, ensued. Ranny's eyes flashed with
ill-concealed anger, and he gripped his under lip tight between his
teeth. His first ball was good, but the batter fell on the second
with all his might. _Crack!_ A gasp went up from the watchers on the
bench. _Smack!_ The gasp merged into a yell of delight as the ball
landed squarely in Frank Sanson's mitt and stuck there. The force of the
impact nearly upset the short-stop, but he recovered swiftly and lined
the horsehide straight into the outstretched hands of Court Parker,
astride of third. There was a flashing downward motion of those hands,
and the sliding runner was tagged, his fingers not six inches from the
sack.

To the shout of delight that went up, Dale Tompkins contributed
rather more than his share. Leaping and capering in front of the bench,
it seemed as if he couldn't express his overwhelming relief at the
unexpected ending of the inning and their escape from a dangerous
situation. He thumped Sanson on the back and poked Court in the ribs
joyously. But when the first excited enthusiasm had passed he began to
think of the inning yet to be played and to wonder how Ranny would
get through it. Surely there was time to pull himself together, the
boy thought. He hadn't really lost control of himself except for a moment.

With the opening of the ninth it looked as if Tompkins was right. Troop
Five had failed to score further, but Ranny entered the box apparently
as cool and self-contained as he had been at the beginning of the game.
Quietly and efficiently he took the first batter in hand, and in spite
of the joshing that at once began on the other side, he lured the boy
into popping up a little infield fly that was easily smothered by the
second baseman.

The next fellow up, however, sent out a long fly to right-field which
Blair unaccountably muffed. Instantly the shrill, nagging voice of "Red"
Conners pier