chers hoped to prevent.

"Willard, you can lead off," was the unexpected announcement of Mr.
Watson, as he scanned his batting order. "McCann will catch for you. Now
let's see what you can do."

"I'll show 'em!" exclaimed the "grouchy" pitcher as he unbuttoned his
glove from his belt. He had been warming up, and had come to the bench,
donning a sweater, with no hope of being put in the game at the start
off. But, unexpectedly, he had been called on.

"Play ball!" cried the umpire again.

Joe wished, with all his heart, that he was going in, but it was not to
be.

In order to give the home team every possible advantage, they were to go
to bat last. And there was some little wonder when the first St. Louis
player faced the local pitcher. There were cries of encouragement from
the crowd, for Robert Lee Randolph--the pitcher in question--had
aspirations to the big league. He was a tall, lanky youth, and, as the
Cardinal players soon discovered, had not much except speed in his box.
But he certainly had speed, and that, with his ability, or inability, to
throw wildly, made him a player to be feared as much as he was admired.

He hit three players during the course of the game, and hit them hard.

"If they can't beat us any other way they're going to cripple us," said
Rad grimly to Joe, as they sat on the bench.

"It does look that way; doesn't it?" agreed our hero.

The game went on, and, as might have been expected, the St. Louis team
did about as they pleased. No, that is hardly correct. Even a country
aggregation of players can sometimes make the finest nine of
professionals stand on its mettle. And, in this case, for a time, the
contest was comparatively close.

For Mr. Watson did not send in all his best players, and, from the fact
that his men had not been in a game since the former season closed,
whereas the Reedville team had been at the game for two months or more,
the disadvantage was not as great as it might have seemed.

But there was one surprise. When Willard first went in he pitched
brilliantly, and struck out the local players in good order, allowing
only a few scattering hits.

Then he suddenly went to pieces, and was severely pounded. Only
excellent fielding saved him, for he was well backed-up by his fellow
players.

"Rexter will bat for you, Willard," said Manager Watson, when the inning
was over. "Cooney, you go out and warm up."

"What's the matter. Ain't I pitching all right?" angrily