Herbert was introduced to Foxhall and Snead. The former, with goggles pushed up on his forehead, pulled off his gauntlet glove to shake hands, saying he was mighty glad to meet Dade Newbert's chum, of whom he'd heard so much from Newbert's lips.
"Yes," gurgled Snead, as he also shook hands; "according to Dade, you're a warm old scout. Get right in here with me, and hang on when Foxy turns on the juice, for there'll be something doing. I imagine we'll touch only a few of the very elevated spots on our way back, judging by the way he cut it out coming over. If you're nervous——"
"Don't worry about me," said Rackliff, as he settled himself beside the fat fellow. "I'm simply dying for something to stir up my blood and set it circulating."
Foxhall adjusted his goggles, switched on the current, and pressed a button that started the engine.
"Ho! ho! We're off!" cried Newbert. "Just watch 'em rubber when we zip down through town. There's a bump this side of the bridge; hang on when we strike it, Herb."
Foxhall turned the car, yanking it round in a see-saw that was hard on transmission and brakes and tires, and started with a jerk that gave a snap to the necks of his three companions, cutting out the muffler as he shifted swiftly through the gears into direct drive. When the main street was reached the reckless youth scarcely slowed down at all to take the turn, and the car came near skidding into the gutter.
"Isn't he the careless creature!" laughed Snead. "He always drives this way, and he's never had an accident."
Past Roger Eliot's home and the white Methodist church they whizzed, the automobile gathering speed on the down grade and obtaining enough momentum to carry it a considerable distance even though the power should be cut off and the brakes applied sufficiently hard to lock the rear wheels. With the discordant electric horn snarling a demand for a clear road, the foolish young driver tore up the dust through the very heart of the village, regardless of his own safety and absolutely ignoring the safety or rights of others. The postoffice spun by on the left; the machine shot across the small square; down the steepest grade of the hill it flew toward the bridge.
Despite the fact that he pretended to be as serene and unconcerned as his companions, who, perhaps, did not realize the danger, Herbert Rackliff was not fully at his ease; for he knew that such driving through a place where there were intersecting streets with blind corners was folly indeed.
As the bridge was approached the road swung to the left. At the very end of the bridge an old building cut off the view of the greater part of the structure from any one approaching from the main portion of the village.
The "bump" of which Newbert had given warning was struck with sufficient force to send the boys bouncing from their seats, and the shock seemed to disturb Foxhall's hold on the steering wheel, for the car swerved unpleasantly. The young driver brought it back with a yank, and then——
"Look out!" screamed Herbert, jumping up in the tonneau.
A woman of middle age, seated in a rickety old wagon, with a child on either side of her, was driving a young and half-broken horse into Oakdale. The young horse snorted, attempted to turn round, and then began to back up, cramping the wagon across the bridge. The woman struggled vainly with the reins, in a perfect panic of terror, and the children screamed, clinging to her.
Foxhall knew he could not stop the car, and to his credit let it be said that he did his best to avoid striking and smashing the wagon—and succeeded. Success, however, was costly; for, in attempting to turn aside and shoot past, the wheel was pulled too sharply, and the machine struck the wooden railing of the bridge, through which it cut as if the railing had been built of cardboard.
Dade Newbert was the only one who managed to leap from the machine ere it crashed through that railing and shot off in a clean leap for the water below. Unimpeded by any barrier, Newbert jumped, struck the ground, plunged forward, and went sliding at full length almost beneath the wheels of the old wagon. Rackliff tried to jump, but he was on the wrong side, and the tonneau door bothered him; however, as the machine fell, with Snead sitting paralyzed in his place and Foxhall clinging to the wheel, Herbert succeeded in flinging himself out over the side.
Surprising to relate, Dade Newbert was not seriously hurt, and, still retaining a certain presence of mind, he scrambled back from the wagon wheels and sat up on the bridge, covered with dirt, a rather woe-begone spectacle. He was still sitting thus when the horse, having turned about at last without upsetting the wagon, went galloping away across the bridge; and he continued to sit there until some boys came running down from the village, shouting as they ran, and asked him if he was hurt.
Then Dade scrambled up. "Oh, mercy!" he gasped. "Don't mind me. I'm all right. The other fellers—they'll be drowned!"
He ran to the side of the bridge and looked over. Foxhall was swimming toward the nearest bank, with Snead puffing and blowing behind him; but Rackliff, who had struck on his stomach sufficiently hard to have the breath knocked out of him, was being carried away by the current, struggling feebly.
With the idea of leaping in to help Herbert, Newbert pulled off his coat; but before he could make the plunge some one flung him aside with the sweep of a muscular arm and went shooting headlong like an arrow toward the surface of the river.
People were running toward the bridge from various directions. Some of the boys started down to help the swimmers out when they should reach the shore; but no one else ventured to plunge into the river.
The one who had made that unhesitating plunge was Rodney Grant. Springer, who had reached the spot a moment ahead of Rod, saw Grant as he shot downward with hands outstretched and palms pressed together.
"Wh-why didn't I do it?" muttered Phil. "I didn't th-think quick enough."
He saw Grant's head appear above the surface and beheld the Texan striking out toward Rackliff with strong strokes that sent him forging through the water. The gathering crowd on the bridge began to cheer the rescuer.
"Of course!" whispered Phil savagely. "It's another feather in his cap! He'll help the chap out of the drink, and everybody in town will say it was a nervy and daring piece of heroism. Oh, I'm slow! I lost my chance!"
At that moment his bitterness toward Grant was so intense that he felt he could unhesitatingly go to any extreme to injure him. His lips curled back from his teeth in a semblance of a snarl; he watched the Texan reach the spot where Rackliff's head had an instant before disappeared from view, saw him likewise plunge beneath the surface, and beheld him rise, farther down the stream, with the still weakly struggling fellow secured by a grip upon his coat collar at the back of the neck. Deftly the rescuer swung Herbert round, face upward, upon his back, and, holding him thus, with mouth and nose above the water, began swimming toward the nearest shore.
The rapidly increasing crowd of spectators on the bridge cheered still more vociferously.
"It's getting to be a regular sus-stunt of his, this rescuing people from drowning," muttered Springer. "Hear them yell! Bah! What fools people are! Why didn't I think quick enough to get ahead of him!"
A short distance below the bridge Foxhall was wading out of the water, disdaining assistance. Snead, however, did not spurn the hands extended to him when he came floundering and gurgling toward dry ground.
A dozen persons were running down toward the point for which Rodney Grant was heading, all eager to take some part in the exciting rescue. Of the boys who had rushed to the scene, Springer was the only one who remained on the bridge. He waited until he beheld Grant stand on his feet in shallow water and wade toward the bank, bearing Rackliff in his arms.
"I don't propose to hang around and see them slobber over him," he whispered hoarsely; "so I think I'll beat it, get a move on, dig."
As he turned away his eyes fell on a folded sheet of paper lying at his feet, and within three feet of the paper he discovered a pocket notebook. He picked up the paper and the notebook.
"Some one of that bunch dropped these," he decided. "Oh, but they were lucky to come out of this scrape alive! I think this will cuc-cure that idiot Foxhall of doing fancy stunts with his old man's gas cart."
Mechanically he unfolded the paper. There was writing upon it, and Phil was suddenly chained in his tracks as his senses took in the meaning of those several short sentences, each of which was written on a separate line:
"Bat held in right hand means hit and run.
"In left hand, try the steal.
"In both hands, perpendicular, play safe.
"In both hands, horizontal, will sacrifice.
"In right hand, handle down, squeeze play."
This was as far as Phil read, but the list covered the entire page, being condensed, with the lines very close together, at the bottom, evidently in order to get everything on that side of the sheet. Springer's eyes threatened to pop out of his head and his under jaw sagged.
"Great snakes!" he gasped. "These are our playing signals!"
For a short time he stood there dazed, unconscious of the excitement near at hand, deaf to the cheering of the crowd. He had thought at first that the paper, like the notebook, must be the property of one of those boys who had occupied the automobile, but, with the discovery of what was written on that paper, he slowly arrived at the conclusion that his original conviction was erroneous. The writing looked familiar, too, although at that time he could not seem to recall the person whose chirography it resembled.
"The notebook," he finally decided; "that may tell who it belongs to, for doubtless the same chap dropped both."
On the fly leaf of the notebook he found the name of Dade Newbert. He had refolded the paper, and was still staring at the name written in the notebook when Newbert himself, greatly excited, rushed toward him, crying:
"I say, that's mine! Dropped it out of my coat pocket when I pulled the coat off. Give it to me."
He was still carrying his coat in his hand.
"Then you're Nun-Newbert, are you?" questioned Springer, who until this day had never set eyes on the chap.
"Yes, yes. Gimme that! The paper, too. Have you——"
"Just picked them up," said Springer coolly, as he surrendered the folded paper. "Lul-looked in the book to see who it belonged to, that's all."
Newbert seemed to take a breath of relief. "I didn't know but you had been—— Oh, fudge! I dropped them only a minute ago. Say, we've kicked up a rumpus around here, haven't we? That fellow who pulled Rack out of the drink saved me from getting a soaking, as I was just going overboard after Herb. Rack thought he wouldn't take a bath this morning, but he did, just the same. Ho! ho! ho!" The cause for the laugh seemed to be nervousness and excitement rather than mirth.
"Rackliff!" muttered Springer, struck by sudden conviction.
"Old chum of mine. Don't suppose this little experience will do his cold any good, I got Orv Foxhall to come over here for Herb this morning with old man Foxy's bubble that's down there at the bottom of the canal, where it's liable to stay for some time. I reckon we'll all travel back to Wyndham by steam cars." He turned and ran toward the crowd that was coming up from the scene of the rescue.
"Rackliff!" muttered Springer once more.
He knew now who had written those signals on that sheet of paper.
The game between Oakdale and Wyndham was in progress, and, wretchedly miserable, Phil Springer sat watching from the bleachers. Never before in all his life had he felt so much like a contemptible criminal, a dastardly traitor to his team, against which, through the agency of Herbert Rackliff, he had wagered money. It was not, however, the fact that he had made such a wager that troubled him most, although at this moment, deep down in his heart, he was sincerely ashamed of that.
The principal cause of his misery, the reason why he kept telling himself over and over that he was a cowardly sneak, was his knowledge that the playing signals of the visitors had been betrayed to the home team, and that, taking advantage of the knowledge thus obtained, Wyndham was prepared to block Oakdale's every play, and was doing this in a manner which appeared to the average spectator like almost uncanny foresight and cleverness at the game.
In the very first inning, with only one out and a runner on third, the Oakdale batter, taking his instructions from Captain Eliot, had walked out to the plate with the bat held in his right hand, handle downward, which was the signal for the squeeze play. But Wyndham had known what was coming quite as well as Oakdale, and Newbert, pitching the ball beyond the batsman's reach, gave the catcher every chance to get the runner as he came lunging hopelessly toward the pan.
The second inning, also, had opened promisingly for Oakdale, but the enemy's knowledge of the meaning of those signals had made it a simple matter to bring that auspicious opening to a fruitless and discouraging close.
Meanwhile Wyndham got a run in the first, and in the third she pushed two more happy fellows over the rubber, aided by errors; for Grant was pitching in excellent form, and not a tally of the three was really earned.
The sight of Roy Hooker, wearing Springer's own suit and sitting on the bench as a spare pitcher, did not serve in any way to make Phil more comfortable. He knew that by every bond of loyalty and decency he should be there himself when he was not working on the slab. Like some other fellows, in the past he had occasionally laughed and joked about Roy's aspirations to become a pitcher; but now, at last having gotten his eyes open to some of his faults, and having succeeded in restraining his jealousy of others who were in some respects his superiors, Hooker was pursuing a course that had already led him to be accepted in place of the deserter.
Phil held himself aloof from the crowd of sympathizers with the team who had come over from Oakdale to root for the crimson; he did not even wear the school colors. When he saw them waving their bright banners and heard them cheering he thought, with a heavy heart and no feeling of satisfaction, that they little knew how utterly useless their enthusiasm was. The game was fixed; the cards were stacked, and there was no chance for Oakdale to win.
He bit his lip as he saw Grant working steadily and coolly on the slab, doing splendidly, little dreaming that, as the situation stood, he might "wallop his wing off" with scarcely a ghost of a prospect that Oakdale could overcome the lead the locals had already obtained.
"I'm glad—as far asheis concerned," Springer whispered to himself; "but I'm sus-sorry for the rest of the fellows. It's a rotten piece of business, and Rackliff ought to be ashamed of himself."
Where was Rackliff? He knew Herbert had come to Wyndham after changing his clothes for dry ones, following his rescue from the river by Grant, but Phil had not put eyes on the fellow since his arrival on the scene of the game. It seemed very strange that Rackliff should not be somewhere on hand to watch the progress of the contest.
"One thing is sure," was the promise the unhappy youth made himself, "I'll tell him just what I think of him when I get a good chance, and I won't mum-mince my words. Oh, I wish I'd never let him have that money to bet on Wyndham! If I hadn't done that——"
He stopped short, thinking that, even though he had not wagered his money, his hatred for Rod Grant and his desire to see the fellow pitch a losing game would be sufficient to keep him silent concerning the betrayal of the signals. He sought to convince himself that, as he was not concerned in that wretched piece of work, he was in no way responsible. His rebellious conscience, however, kept prodding him with the knowledge that he was "an accessory to the crime."
Again and again he longed to rise and shout a warning to Eliot—yearned to tell him loudly, that all might hear, that Wyndham knew Oakdale's signals. If he were to do such a thing as that—do it dramatically before that great crowd—would it not serve to restore him to sudden popularity with the fellows who now held him in contempt because of the petty, peevish, jealous course he had pursued?
"I wish they'd ha-hammer Grant out," he muttered. "If they'd only do that, I'd warn Eliot. Of course I wouldn't give it away that I knew abub-bout the crookedness all the time, for that would queer me worse than ever. I've got to kuk-keep that a dark secret, sure enough."
He wondered what explanation he could make if he should warn Eliot; surely he would have to tell how he came to believe that Wyndham was wise to the signals of her opponents. There seemed only one reasonable story for him to put forward: he would be compelled to claim that he had overheard some persons in the crowd telling each other that such was the case.
And that would be a lie!
"I lied once on account of that fellow Grant, and got caught at it," thought Phil. "If I should tell Eliot now, Rackliff might—— But he doesn't know that I know he gave our signals to Wyndham. Still, if I come out publicly and warn Roger, Rackliff may get sore and blow around that part of the money he bet on Wyndham belonged to me."
Thus, wavering, tortured and miserable, he followed the progress of the game, realizing more and more as it went on that Oakdale had absolutely no chance at all while the players of the other side could see and understand every batting and base-running signal that was given. Fighting against such odds without knowledge of the fact seemed to Phil to be a most outrageous thing, and he pledged himself that, from this day forward, he would have no more dealings with Rackliff.
As it was not necessary for the first batter in an inning to signal, Wyndham could not "lay for him" by the aid of knowledge gained in advance, and to open the fourth Sile Cane strode forth and fell on one of Newbert's slants, straightening it out handsomely for two sacks.
Grant, following, took his cue from Eliot and signalled Crane that he would bunt, on which sacrifice the lanky fellow was to take third.
Springer's teeth grated together as he beheld the entire Wyndham infield prepare to handle Rod's bunt, while Newbert drove Josh back and held him as close as possible to the second sack. Suddenly the ball was whipped over the pan, high and close, in spite of which the batter succeeded in sending it rolling heavily into the diamond. But Newbert, racing forward as soon as the sphere left his fingers, scooped it cleanly with one hand and snapped it across to third without straightening up. The baseman was covering the sack in a position to get the long-geared runner, and, catching the ball, he put it on to Crane with considerable viciousness as Josh slid.
"Out at third!" shouted the umpire, with up-flung hand.
The attempted sacrifice had been turned into a miserable failure solely because the locals had known precisely what their opponents would try to do.
"I can't stand much more of this!" groaned Springer aloud. "It's worse than robbery! I'll have to get out."
Hearing the words, a rejoicing Wyndham sympathizer slapped him heavily on the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard," laughingly advised the familiar fellow. "It's just what everybody expected."
"Oh, is that so?" snapped Phil resentfully, turning his head to look up at the chap. "Well, if this was a square game they might get their expectations stepped on."
"A square game!" retorted the other. "What do you mean by that? What's the matter with it? So far, it's the cleanest game I've seen this year.
"It's the dirtiest game I ever saw! It's cuc-crooked from the start. Oakdale hasn't a sus-show."
"Of course she hasn't; she's outclassed. You Oakdalers are poor losers; you always squeal."
"Outclassed—nothing!" fumed Phil. "Oakdale is playing just as good baseball as Wyndham—and playing it on the level."
"And by that I suppose you mean that Wyndham isn't playing on the level?"
"You don't have to gug-guess twice; that's what I mean."
"Oh, go crawl into your hole! There hasn't been a kick. Anybody can see that we're playing all round you simply because we've got the best team. Dade Newbert is a dandy."
"Yes, he's a dandy at this sort of baseball. I happen to know just what he is, and a fellow who'll do what he's dud-done to win this game hasn't any right to pitch on a respectable nine."
"You're dotty. Look here, you better be careful about shooting off that sort of talk, or you may have a chance to prove it."
"I can bub-back up anything I've said," declared Phil, now thoroughly aroused. "I'm dead onto the whole dirty deal. If I should tell Roger Eliot what I know you'd sus-see a change in the complexion of this game in short order."
"Oh, really!" scoffed the incredulous Wyndhamite. "If you know so much, why don't you tell it? If you know anything that amounts to anything, you'll tell it—unless you're crooked yourself."
That cut deeply, and Springer choked back further heated words which were boiling to his lips. What right had he to rail against Newbert? Under the circumstances, his failure to warn his former teammates made him fully as dishonest and deserving of contempt as the Wyndham pitcher—far more so. The white anger of his face turned to a crimson flush of shame.
Silenced, he saw Wyndham, ready to block the hit and run, take Cooper's zipping grounder and turn into a double play what possibly might otherwise have been a safety. In that moment Springer's mind was made up, and he immediately left his seat on the bleachers.
"I'll tell Eliot the truth at any cost," he muttered.
While Phil Springer was making his way round to the Oakdale side of the field an accident took place. The first Wyndham batter to face Grant in that inning hit the ball squarely and hard, driving it on a dead line toward the pitcher, but a trifle to his right. Grant might have dodged, but, instead of that, he tried to catch that red-hot liner with his bare right hand, and the ball split two of his fingers. Nevertheless, he stopped it, caught it up with his left hand when it fell to the ground, and tossed it to Sile Crane at first in time for a put-out.
Rod showed his blood-streaming hand to the umpire, who promptly called "time." Then the Texan walked toward the bench, Eliot running to join him.
"How bad are you hurt, old man?" asked the captain anxiously.
"I don't know," was the answer. "Didn't know I was hurt at all until I saw the claret spouting; reckoned my paw was benumbed a bit, and that was all."
But when water was poured over those bleeding fingers and Roger saw just what had happened to them, he turned quickly to Hooker, saying in a low tone:
"Get a ball, Hook, and warm up. You'll have to pitch the game out."
A doctor pressed through the crowd that had surrounded the injured player.
"Fix these busted fingers up quick, doc," urged Grant, "so I can get back into the game without delaying things too long."
"You'll play no more baseball to-day, my boy," said the physician; "nor for some days to come. You're out of it, and you may as well accept the alternative with good grace."
And so Springer saw Hooker go in to pitch, aware that only for his jealousy and blind folly he would have been the one called upon to replace the injured chap.
"Serves me right," he muttered. Which was proof sufficient that he was getting his eyes open.
Naturally, Hooker was very nervous, although secretly elated by the opportunity to pitch in this most important game. Eliot talked with him a moment or two about signals, finishing by placing a hand on his shoulder and saying:
"Now, keep cool, Hook, and take your time. Mind my signals, and do your best for control. It's your chance to show the stuff that's in you. Don't be afraid of Wyndham, and don't listen to the crowd. Close your ears and eyes to everything outside of the game. You may surprise yourself and everybody else, if you keep your head."
There was something in Roger's words and manner that proved very steadying to Roy, and he toed the slab with an outward show of confidence, whether or not he was inwardly perturbed. The majority of the Oakdale players were much cast down, however, and it was a rather feeble and heartless cheer that the rooters with the crimson banners gave the substitute pitcher.
Hooker pitched two balls wide, and then put one over; which the batsman hit, rolling a grounder into the diamond for Chipper Cooper to handle. Chipper managed to get it and wing it across to Crane for a clean put-out.
"Two gone, fellows," called Eliot. "We'll keep right on playing baseball. Get this next man, now."
The next man hoisted a long fly to center, where Ben Stone, sure as fate, took charge of it; and Hooker, now really quite calm and confident, jogged to the bench.
"See if you can't start something, Sleuth," urged Roger as Piper found his bat. "We've got to make some runs pretty soon, and we may as well begin now."
Springer, walking swiftly out to the bench, spoke Eliot's name. "I want a few words with you, Roger," he said; "I've gug-gug-got something—something important to—to tell you." He stumbled more than usual over his words, and his face was very pale; but his manner was resolute and determined.
A slight frown fell on the face of the Oakdale captain as he turned his eyes upon the speaker. "What is it, Springer?" he asked almost repellantly.
"Just sus-step one side a bit so I can tell you without anybody else hearing," begged Phil.
Roger complied, lending an ear to the startling information Springer had to impart, but, after his usual composure, retaining his self-possessed atmosphere to such a degree that scarcely any one who chanced to be watching them could have dreamed how disturbing that information really was.
"How do you happen to know about this, Phil?" Eliot asked.
"Don't ask me. I can't tut-tell you now. But it's dead straight, Roger, and Oakdale hasn't a ghost of a show as long as you continue to stick by those signals."
"We'll change them right away."
Piper had succeeded in bumping a slow grounder into the diamond, on which he scudded for first with amazing speed, for he was really a splendid sprinter. The ball was handled a bit too slowly, giving the Oakdale lad time to reach the sack by the narrowest margin.
"Never mind that, fellows," grinned Orv Foxhall from his position at second. "I'll get him when he comes down this way. He may be pretty speedy, but——"
"He won't run off the bridge," cried Cooper, on the coaching line. "Your speed has made you pawn things more than once, and now you've gone and soaked your daddy's automobubble."
"Bright boy," scoffed Foxhall. "I always enjoy it when you make a choke, but I'd enjoy it more if you'd make one that would finish you."
Sile Crane came running down from the bench, catching Cooper by the shoulders and whispering something into his ear. Chipper looked surprised, and then, as Crane was jogging back, in violation of the rules, the coacher ran out to first, grabbed Piper and whispered to him.
"Hey?" gasped Sleuth, staring at Chub Tuttle, who was walking to the plate with his bat held in a manner which seemed to indicate that he would bunt the ball. "What's the——"
"Shut up!" hissed Chipper. "Mind! Get a lead now! Be ready!" Then he skipped back over the chalk-mark before the umpire could order him back.
The Wyndham infielders crept forward, crouching and ready. Newbert, contemptuous of Tuttle's skill as a batter, handed up an easy one. Instead of bunting, the fat lad rapped out a little fly, that sailed over the heads of the in-drawn infielders, and Cooper, having obtained a good start, went twinkling over second and on to third.
Wyndham had been deceived, much to the annoyance of the local players, who looked at one another inquiringly. It was rather remarkable that Tuttle had not followed his own signal, plainly given. It was possible, however, that, seeing the infielders prepared to take his bunt, the fellow had decided at the last moment to do something else.
Nelson followed Tuttle, and he held his bat in a manner that seemed to proclaim he would "take one," giving Chub a chance to try to steal second on the first ball pitched. Believing this was the program, Newbert whipped over a beautiful straight ball for a called strike.
But Nelson did not let that handsome one pass; it was just the kind he liked, and he fell on it with great glee, smashing a liner into the outfield, between right and center.
Piper, laughing, scored at a jog trot; while Tuttle, his fists clenched, his eyes glaring, his cheeks puffed out like toy balloons, galloped over the sacks with all the grace of a frightened elephant.
"Score, Chub—score!" shrieked Crane, who had pranced down onto the coaching line back of third, and who was waving his long arms grotesquely. "Make it or bust! You kin do it!"
Tuttle continued to the plate, where, raising a great cloud of dust, he arrived on an attempted slide, a moment ahead of the ball, being declared safe.
The Wyndham crowd was filled with dismay; the Oakdalers with the crimson banners were leaping and shrieking on the bleachers. The local players knew something was wrong, and they showed the greatest confusion and consternation. Dade Newbert was making some remarks that would not look well in print.
Captain Eliot had instructed his players to abandon the use of signals for the time being, and to bat and run bases wholly as their judgment might dictate, and this sudden change threatened totally to demoralize the Wyndhamites.
Not a man was out, and the visitors, having already secured two tallies, had a runner moored at third. Berlin Barker stepped forth briskly, urging the umpire to keep the game in motion, his bat held as if he intended to try for a safe bingle. As matters stood, it seemed logical that he should do this, and the Wyndhamites got ready for him.
But Berlin, trusting the speedy Nelson to take advantage of it, bunted the first ball. His confidence in Nelson was not misplaced, Jack sprinting to the plate, while the baffled home players bestirred themselves too late even to get Barker, whose bunt went for a safe hit.
The score was tied.
Foxhall, rushing up to Newbert, whispered excitedly:
"They've changed their signals! That's what's fooling us. We've got to——"
There was a yell. Observing that second base was left practically unguarded, Barker scooted down from first, and he got there ahead of the shortstop, who made an effort to cover the sack.
"This is a great year for high flying," laughingly whooped Cooper. "Ten thousand feet in an aeroplane isn't so much; why, this whole Wyndham bunch is up in the air higher than that this very minute. They're liable to come down hard, too."
Like Foxhall, the Wyndham captain had decided that Oakdale was no longer using the known code of batting and base-running signals, and he made haste to warn his players to place no further reliance upon the information they had obtained concerning those signals.
"We want another run to take the lead, Stoney," said Eliot as Ben stepped into the batter's box.
Stone took in the situation and also did the unexpected, dropping another bunt in front of the pan. The catcher got the ball in time to throw Stone out, but the batter's object was obtained, for Barker had sailed along to third.
The Oakdaleites on the seats implored Eliot to get a hit, and Roger responded by cutting a grounder through into short right field, which let Barker score and placed the visitors in the lead.
Newbert's face was white as chalk. Up to this inning he had been insolent in his self-confidence and contempt for the visitors, but the strain now put upon him proved too much, and he hit Crane in the ribs, following with a pass to Hooker, which filled the corners.
Then, amid the tumultuous cheering and laughter of the Oakdale crowd. Captain Holley sent Newbert to the bench and called Twitt Crowell forth to take his place.
"Too bad little Herbie Rackliff isn't here to witness the fate of his chum, the wonderful pitcher from Boston," laughed Jack Nelson.
"Where is Rackliff?" questioned Stone.
"Why, don't you know? He's sick abed; just went down flat after reaching this town, and had to have a doctor."
With the bases full, Chipper Cooper longed for a handsome clean drive; but fortune seemed to favor Crowell, for when Chipper did hit the ball he simply rolled it straight at the man on the slab, who scooped it and snapped it back to the catcher with Eliot only a little more than halfway down the line from third. Taking the ball, with one foot on the plate, the catcher hummed it past Cooper's ear to first, completing a double play.
Of course the downcast Wyndhamites awoke and cheered, but the visitors, although disappointed by the abrupt ending of their "streak," felt very well satisfied.
"Now keep steady and play the game, boys," called Eliot. "This is the game we want to win."
Springer, literally a-tingle with joy over the turn the game had taken, watched Hooker, who was given excellent support, pull through the fifth without letting more than one man reach first base.
"I'm glad," muttered Phil. "I don't care if it does cost me seven dollars, for Wyndham deserves to be beaten."
Eliot, removing his cage at the end of the inning, looked for Springer and found him. "Come here, Phil," he called, beckoning.
Phil hesitated, more than half disposed to pretend that he did not hear and to get away from that locality at once; but, realizing he would find it necessary to face Roger's questions sooner or later, he finally plucked up courage to answer the summons. Greatly to his relief, the captain of the nine did not question him then; instead of that, Roger said:
"I'm much obliged to you, old fellow, for putting me wise, although I'm ashamed that I didn't tumble to the fact myself. I hope we can win this game now; we must win it somehow. Grant is knocked out for some time to come, and there's only Hooker left to depend on. If anything happens to Hook, it's all off; there's no one to take his place."
Suddenly Phil understood what Roger was driving at, and his pale face flamed with color. "If I can——" he began eagerly, and then stopped, choking a bit.
"I thought so!" exclaimed Roger, with great satisfaction; "I thought you must be still loyal and true. I've got to pay close attention to the run of the game. Won't you find Grant and ask him to let you have his suit? Get into it as soon as you can, and hurry back here; for Wyndham is liable to solve Hook's delivery any minute. Hustle, old chap—do."
With this admonition, he turned to give his attention to his players.
"Still loyal and true!" muttered Phil. "If he only knew the truth! Well, I suppose he'll find out before long, for Rackliff will blow on me. I'll have to face it, that's all. I wonder wh-where Grant is."
A few moments later he found the fellow he was seeking, the doctor having just finished bandaging Rod's injured fingers. Springer hesitated, feeling that it was almost impossible for him to approach the Texan, and, as he was wavering, Grant, still wearing his playing suit, started for the Oakdale bench.
"I—I bub-beg your pardon," stammered Phil as Rodney was passing.
"Oh!" exclaimed the young Texan, stopping short. "Is it you—Phil? What's the matter?"
"I—want—your—suit." Springer could not meet Rod's eyes, and he could feel his cheeks burning; for over him had swept a full and complete understanding of his own folly in permitting jealousy to lead him into the course he had been pursuing.
"My—my suit?" said Rod, as if he did not quite understand. "You——"
"Eliot sus-sent me for it," Phil hastened to explain. "You know he hasn't a spare man on the bench now, and if anything should happen to another pup-player——"
"Come on," said Rod, turning sharply. "The dressing room is over back of the seats here."
In the dressing room Grant got out of the playing suit as quickly as possible, while Springer stripped off his street clothes and unhesitatingly donned each piece as it was tossed to him. Both were silent, for the situation was such that neither could seem to find words to fit it. However, having put on Rod's clothes down to the brass-clipped pitching shoes and being on the point of leaving the Texan struggling slowly into his everyday garments, Phil stopped and half turned, after taking a step toward the door.
"I'm sus-sorry you got your fingers busted," he stated in a low tone.
"Thanks," returned Rod, without looking up.
"He despises me," whispered Springer, as soon as he was outside. "Well, perhaps I deserve it."
At the end of the tiered seats he came upon Herbert Rackliff, who had just arrived at the field. Herbert's eyes widened on beholding Springer in that suit. His face was pale save for two burning spots upon his hollow cheeks.
"What the dickens does this mean?" exclaimed Rackliff, his wondering eyes flashing over Phil from head to heels.
"Nothing," was the answer, "only Grant's hurt, and I'm going onto the bub-bench as spare man—at Eliot's request."
An odd smile twisted Rackliff's lips. "Now wouldn't that kill you dead!" he coughed. "At Eliot's request! Ha! ha! ha! If he only knew! But of course he doesn't suspect, for I haven't given you away. Well, this is a joke!"
"I'm in a hurry, so I'll hustle along."
"Wait a jiffy. I've just got here. Sort of went to pieces after landing in this town, and they stowed me in bed, with a pill-slinger looking at my tongue, taking my pulse and asking a lot of tiresome questions. He even sounded my lungs, though I protested against it. And then he told me I was to stay in bed, and left a lot of nasty medicine for me to take. I stayed in bed as long as I could, knowing this game was going on. Now that I'm here, how does it stand?"
"Your great pup-pitcher, Newbert, was batted out in the fifth inning."
"What's that? I don't believe it!"
"It's a fact."
"The score—what's the score?"
"It was four to three in Oakdale's favor at the end of the fifth."
"Rotten!" snarled Herbert, and a tempestuous burst of coughing shook him frightfully.
When Phil started away the still coughing lad grasped his arm and restrained him.
"You—you wait!" gasped Rackliff. "Wyndham must win this game—she just must, that's all. Did you say Grant was hurt?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Enough to knock him out; he got two fingers busted by a liner hot from the bub-bat."
"Good! Then I suppose that dub Hooker is pitching now?"
"Yes."
"Well, if I had any more money I'd be willing to bet the limit that Wyndham gets to him, all right. He'll get his."
"Perhaps not. He fuf-finished the fifth in style."
"He'll get his," repeated Herbert positively. "Then you'll be run in. That's why Eliot wants you. That will fix things beautifully. You know what to do."
"Yes, I know what to do," said Phil slowly, "and I shall do it if I get the chance."
"That's the talk! You can do it cleverly enough so no one will suspect that you're throwing the game, and we'll win——"
"If I'm put in to pitch," said Springer, still uttering his words in that slow and positive manner, "I shall do my level best to hold Wyndham down and give Oakdale a chance to win the game."
"You—you'll what?" spluttered Rackliff incredulously. "Why, you're joking! Your money, seven dollars which you gave me, is bet on Wyndham. If Oakdale wins you lose the seven."
"If I could do anything to help Oakdale win, I'd do it, even if I stood to lose seven hundred dollars by it," declared Phil.