a throw to Mullaney. Ball and runner got to the
bag apparently simultaneously; the umpire called
Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar of
delight.

The next pitch to Manning was a strike. Rube
was not wasting any balls, a point I noted with
mingled fear and satisfaction. For he might have
felt that he had no strength to spare that day and
so could not try to work the batters. Again he
swung, and Manning rapped a long line fly over
McCall. As the little left fielder turned at the
sound of the hit and sprinted out, his lameness
was certainly not in evidence. He was the swiftest
runner in the league and always when he got
going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him.
Mac took that fly right off the foul flag in deep
left, and the bleachers dinned their pleasure.

The teams changed positions. ``Fellers,'' said
Spears, savagely, ``we may be a bunged-up lot of
stiffs, but, say! We can hit! If you love your
old captain--sting the ball!''

Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work
cut out for him. For one sympathetic moment I
saw his part through his eyes. My Worcester
veterans, long used to being under fire, were
relentlessly bent on taking that game. It showed
in many ways, particularly in their silence,