you. We've got the banner crowd of the year out
there right now, a great crowd to play before.
I'm more fussed up over this game than any I
remember. But I have a sort of blind faith in
my team. . . . I guess that's all I want to say.''

Spears led the silent players out of the dressing
room and I followed; and while they began to
toss balls to and fro, to limber up cold, dead arms,
I sat on the bench.

The Bisons were prancing about the diamond,
and their swaggering assurance was not conducive
to hope for the Worcesters. I wondered
how many of that vast, noisy audience, intent on
the day's sport, even had a thought of what pain
and toil it meant to my players. The Buffalo men
were in good shape; they had been lucky; they
were at the top of their stride, and that made all
the difference.

At any rate, there were a few faithful little
women in the grand stand--Milly and Nan and
Rose Stringer and Kate Bogart--who sat with
compressed lips and hoped and prayed for that
game to begin and end.

The gong called off the practice, and Spears,
taking the field, yelled gruff encouragement to his
men. Umpire Carter brushed off the plate and