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 and was out of the play. The pitcher, racing in, snapped up the ball with one hand and had a vision, out of the corner of his eyes, of the Northfield runner on third trying to score. He wasted a precious moment deciding that the runner on third was only trying to rattle him and had already swung about and run back to the bag.

"First!" roared the catcher. "Great Scott, throw it. Throw it!"

The pitcher threw, and the throw was high over the first baseman's frantic hands.

A yell of triumph came from Praska. "O-o-o-o-h! Look at that!"

The boy on third had scored, Littlefield had romped to third, and Chanler, rising out of a cloud of dust, was brushing his uniform at second. The score was now 5-4, with the tying run and the winning run waiting to come over the plate.

"Tuttle's up," someone shouted. Slowly—slowly—the crowd became silent. Tuttle was the weakest hitter on the team. Yet, as he strode out swinging two bats, the cheering broke out again as though the students fully expected him to win the game. It was Northfield spirit!

Something, though, was happening on the bench. A boy sprang out and called aloud. Tuttle paused and came back. And now another boy stepped out, bent heavy football shoulders