pon him before he hit hard over
second base. But Raymond pounced upon the ball like a tiger, dashed
over the bag and threw to first, getting both runners.

"Wull, Ken, make them hit to me," growled Raymond.

Ken sat down upon the bench far from the coach. He shunned Worry in that
moment. The warm praise of his fellow-players was meaningless to him.
Something was terribly wrong. He knew he shrank from going into the box
again, yet dared not admit it to himself. He tried to think clearly, and
found his mind in a whirl. When the Wayne batters went out in one, two,
three order, and it was time for Ken to pitch again, he felt ice form in
his veins.

"Only six more hitters!" called Reddy's warning voice. It meant cheer
and praise from Reddy, but to Ken it seemed a knell.

"Am I weakening?" muttered Ken. "Am I going up in the air? _What_ is
wrong with me?"

He was nervous now and could not stand still and he felt himself
trembling. The ball was wet from the sweat in his hands; his hair
hung damp over his brow and he continually blew it out of his eyes.
With all his spirit he crushed back the almost overwhelming desire
to hurry, hurry, hurry. Once more, in a kind of passion, he fought
off the dreaded unknown weakness.

With two balls pitched to Starke he realized that he had lost control
of his curve. He was not frightened for the loss of his curve, but he
went stiff with fear that he might lose control of his fast ball, his
best and last resort. Grimly he swung and let drive. Starke lined the
ball to left. The crowd lifted itself with a solid roar, and when Homans
caught the hit near the foul flag, subsided with a long groan. Ken set
his teeth. He knew he was not right, but did any one else know it? He
was getting magnificent support and luck was still with him.

"Over the pan, Peg! Don't waste one!" floated from Reddy, warningly.

Then Ken felt sure that Reddy had seen or divined his panic. How soon
would the Place players find it out? With his throat swelling and his
mouth dry and his whole body in a ferment Ken pitched to Martin. The
short-stop hit to Weir, who made a superb stop and throw. Two out!

From all about Ken on the diamond came the low encouraging calls of
his comrades. Horton, a burly left-hander, stepped forward, swinging
a wagon-tongue. Ken could no longer steady himself and he pitched
hurriedly. One ball, two balls, one strike, three balls--how the big
looming Horton stood waiting over the plate! Al