whatever to begin with, but somehow became strangely tangled
in the wire meshes. From his appearance one might have fancied Eliot
stone deaf to that babel of sounds, and he seemed utterly blind when
Larkins rushed out from the bench before him, flourishing his arms, and
demanding that he should get back into his position and let the game
proceed.

Such a show of outward calm should have done much to restore the
equanimity of the pitcher; but, though Springer tried hard to get a
steadying grip on himself, his fear of what might happen if Pratt hit
him led him to pitch himself into a still worse predicament; and he
handed up three balls, one after another, in an effort to fool the
Barville boy. The shouts of the coachers, urging Pratt to "take a
walk" and asserting that it was "a dead sure thing," added in the
completion of Phil's undoing; for, even though he did his best to put a
straight one over, the ball was outside, and Pratt capered exultantly
to first, while Roberts, grinning all over one side of his face, jogged
home.

"Take him out!" Some one in the Oakdale crowd uttered the cry, and
immediately a dozen others took it up. "Take him out! Take him out!"
they adjured.

These appeals were unnecessary, for already Eliot had decided that Phil
could not continue, and was beckoning for Grant to come in, a signal
which Rodney did not at first seem to comprehend. Presently the Texan
started slowly in from the field, and Springer, at the umpire's call of
"time," turned, his head drooping, toward the bench.

"Hadn't you better take right, Phil?" suggested Eliot.

The heartsick fellow shook his head. "I wouldn't be any good out
there--now," he muttered.

So Tuttle was sent into right, while Grant limbered up his arm a bit by
throwing a few to Sile Crane.

"Here's something still easier, fellows," called Newt Copley. "Perhaps
he can throw a lasso, but he can't pitch baseball. Keep it up. Don't
stop."

"Play!" ordered the umpire.

Rod Grant toed the pitcher's slab for the first time in a real game of
baseball, wondering a bit if he was destined to receive a continuation
of the unkind treatment that had put "the blanket" on his predecessor.

In the meantime, Herbert Rackliff had been collared by Bunk Lander, a
big, husky village boy, whose face was ablaze with wrath and whose
manner betrayed an almost irresistible yearning to punch the city youth.

"You keep your trap closed," rasped Lander, "or I'll kno