a fair chance, Joe, and he’ll knock the cover off!”

“Play ball!” snapped the umpire, and Joe, who had been exchanging the regulation practice balls with the catcher signalled that he was ready to deliver the first one of the game. The catcher called for a slow out, but Joe shook his head. He knew Art Church of old, and remembered that this player fairly “ate ’em up.” Joe gave the signal to Tom that he would send a swift in-shoot, and his chum nodded comprehendingly.

“Ball one!” yelled the umpire, and Joe could not restrain a start of surprise. True, Art had not swung at the horsehide, but it had easily clipped the plate, and, Joe thought, should have been called a strike. But he said nothing, and, delivering the same sort of a ball the next time, he had the satisfaction of deceiving the batter, who swung viciously at it.

“He’s only trying you out!” was shouted at Joe. “He’ll wallop the next one!”

But Art Church did not, and waiting in vain for what he considered a good ball, he struck at the next and missed, while the third strike was called on him without his getting a chance to move his bat.

“Oh, I guess the umpire isn’t against us after all,” thought Joe, as he threw the ball over to first while the next batter was coming up.

“How’s that?” yelled Tom in delight. “Guess there aren’t going to be any home runs for you Resolutes.”

“Oh, it’s early yet,” answered the visiting captain.

But the Resolutes were destined to get no runs in that half-inning. One man popped up a little fly, which was easily taken care of, and the next man Joe struck out cleanly.

He was beginning to feel that he was getting in form again. All that Spring he had pitched fine games at Excelsior Hall, but, during the Summer vacation, at the close of the boarding school, he had gone a bit stale. He could feel it himself. His muscles were stiff from lack of use, and he had not the control of the ball, which was one of his strong points. Neither could he get up the speed which had always been part of his assets, and which, in after years, made him such a power in the big league.

Still Joe felt that he was doing fairly well, and he knew that, as the game went on, and he warmed up, he would do better.

“We ought to win,” he told Tom Davis, as they walked to the bench. “That is if we get any kind of support, and if our fellows can hit their pitcher. What sort of a chap is he?”

“Don’t know much about him. He’s been at it all Summer though, and ought to be in pretty good practice. We’ll soon tell. Len Oswald is first up.”

But that was all Len did—get up. He soon sat down again, not having hit the ball.

“Oh, I guess we’ve got some pitcher!” yelled the Resolutes.

“Even if he isn’t going to college!” added someone, and Joe felt his face burn. He was not at all puffed up over the fact that he was going to Yale, and he disliked exceedingly to get that reputation—so unjustly. But he did not protest.

When the second man went out without getting to first base, it looked as if the contest was going to be a close one, and there began to be whispers of a “pitchers’ battle.”

“‘Pitchers’ battle’ nothing!” exclaimed Joe in a whisper to Tom. “That fellow can’t curve a ball. I’ve been watching him. He’s got a very fast straight delivery, and that’s how he’s fooling ’em. I’m going to hit him, and so can the rest of us if we don’t let him bluff. Just stand close up to the plate and plug it. Who comes next?”

“Percy Parnell.”

“Oh, wow! Well, unless he’s improved a whole lot he won’t do much.”

But Percy had, for the next moment he got the ball just where he wanted it, and slammed it out for a three bagger amid enthusiastic howls. Then the other Silver Star players became aware of the opposing pitcher’s weakness and began hitting him, until three runs had come in. Then, in response to the frantic appeals of the “rooters” and their own captain, the Resolutes took a brace and halted the winning streak. But it had begun, and nothing could stop it.

Joe, much elated that his diagnosis of his opponent had been borne out, again took his place in the box. He determined to show what he could do in the way of pitching, having done some warming-up work with Tom during the previous inning.

He struck out the first man cleanly, and the second likewise. The third hit him for two fouls, and then, seeming to have become familiar with Joe’s style, whacked out one that was good for two bases.

“We’re finding him! We’re finding him!” yelled the excited Resolutes. “Only two down, and we’ve got a good hitter coming.”

Joe saw that his fellow players were getting a little “rattled,” fearing perhaps that he was going to pieces, so, to delay the game a moment, and pull himself together, he walked toward home, and pretended to have a little conference with the catcher.

In reality they only mumbled meaningless words, for Tom knew Joe’s trick of old. But the little break seemed to have a good effect, for the young pitcher struck out the next man and no runs came in.

“Oh, I guess yes!” cried the Silver Star crowd.

The home team got two runs the next inning, and with goose eggs in their opponents’ frame it began to look more like a one-sided contest.

“Boys, we’ve got to wallop ’em!” exclaimed the visiting captain earnestly, as they once more came to bat.

Joe’s arm was beginning to feel the unaccustomed strain a trifle, and to limber up the muscles he “wound-up” with more motions and elaborateness than usual as he again took the mound. As he did so he heard from the grandstand a loud laugh—a laugh that fairly bubbled over with sneering, caustic mirth, and a voice remarked, loud enough for our hero to hear:

“I wonder where he learned that wild and weird style of pitching? He’ll fall all apart if he doesn’t look out!”

He cast a quick glance in the direction of the voice and saw Ford Weston, who sat beside Mabel Davis, fairly doubled up with mirth. Mabel seemed to be remonstrating with him.

“Don’t break your arm!” called Ford, laughing harder than before.

“Hush!” exclaimed Mabel.

Joe felt the dull red of shame and anger mounting to his cheeks.

“So that’s a Yale man,” he thought. “And I’m going to Yale. I wonder if they’re all like that there? I—I hope not.”

And, for the life of him, Joe could not help feeling a sense of anger at the youth who had so sneeringly laughed at him.

“And he’s a Yale man—and on the nine,” mused Joe.