In the sixth they gathered two runs. Burkett had clouted out a home run for the Giants in their half, but that left them still one short of a tie.
Boston started the seventh with a rattling two-bagger to center.
“I don’t understand it,” muttered McRae, uneasily. “Markwith never seemed to be in better shape. He’s got a world of smoke.”
“They seem to know just what he’s going to feed them,” commented Robson. “It almost looks——”
He was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from Joe.
“Look over there by the Boston dugout!” he exclaimed excitedly. “There’s Hartley just behind the screen whispering to Banks. I’ll bet that skunk is giving away Markwith’s signals!”
They looked in the direction indicated. Banks, the Boston second string pitcher, was lolling carelessly against the railing of the grandstand, idly chewing on a wisp of straw. Hartley’s face behind the screen was not two feet away from Banks’ ear.
As Markwith prepared to wind up for the next pitch, Hartley leaned forward a trifle and his lips moved. A glance and an almost imperceptible sign passed between Banks and the man at the plate. Then as a low incurve came sweeping up, the batsman caught it square on the seam for a line single to left.
“Great Scott!” cried McRae, leaping up from the bench. “They’re stealing our signals!”