BOB SCORES AT LAST
"Hit it out, Dave; hit it out!"
"Jeffords is losing his nerve! You've got him going!"
"Knock the cover off the ball."
"Slam out a homer!"
It was hard to realize that the lot only fifteen minutes before had been the scene of the greatest confusion. The spectators were now as orderly as active, wide-awake lads could be. All signs of ill-feeling seemed to have disappeared as entirely as though such a thing had never existed. Mr. Barry's warning had sunk in deep.
The "Hopes," satisfied at last that their chance would come if the regulars failed to make good, became so mild as to cause Benny Wilkins to make several entries in his note-book.
"They are just like little lambs," he observed. "Look at Aleck Parks with a sensible expression on his face." Then, catching sight of a very tall youth, he called: "Hello, John Hackett, hello! Have you any ten cent neckties in the shop? I've got to pay a bill for the afternoon's scrap. Swing at it, Brandon; swing at it! Bert Jeffords can't pitch, and never could pitch. Who discovered him?"
The twirler for the Rockvilles grinned good-naturedly. He had a variety of curves at his command, and good control. His next delivery was an unusually speedy ball.
Dave Brandon, however, had found his batting eye. As he struck with all his force at the inshoot the stick met the ball squarely, and a smoking hot liner whirled past the pitcher.
Jeffords' gloved hand shot toward it but missed. Even the Brown crowd joined in the roar of approval which rose from hundreds of throats.
"Oh, wasn't that a peach of a hit!" cried "Uncle" Steve, rising from his seat and almost dancing with excitement. "Root, professor, root!" he cried, bringing his hand down sharply on Instructor Ivins' shoulder. "Hooray—he's safe!"
The professor's dignified countenance flushed. He gingerly withdrew from such close proximity to the little man, at the same time eying him with a most peculiar expression.
"I'm astonished, sir," he began, stiffly.
"Well, I ain't!" cried "Uncle" Steve—"not a bit of it. Jeffords ain't in the Tippen class. Hold your base there, Brandon; look out, or he'll nail you!"
"One safe hit doesn't make a game," growled Mr. Barry. "Still, this is encouraging. Who's up now, Mr. Kimbole?"
"That slim lad, Charlie Blake."
"Good! He seems to be a heady player, though he hasn't as much bulk or muscle as I'd like to see."
The "grind" had managed to cast off all feelings of nervousness and excitement. He was determined to do his share toward showing that Coach Steele's claims were entirely justified. At the second ball pitched, he bunted, the horse-hide rolling tantalizingly near the third base line.
Before the pitcher could pounce upon it Blake was safe at first and Dave Brandon had reached the second sack.
But the inning so auspiciously begun did not fulfil the hopes aroused in the hearts of the Somersites. Bob's high fly to deep left field was caught; Phil Brentall fanned. Then, after a hard run, Sawdon nipped Alf Boggs' foul.
"Well, it's all a part of the game," said "Uncle" Steve, resignedly.
"Those boys are simply bound to succeed!" exclaimed Captain Bunderley, in a tone of deep conviction.
"Just what I think, too," agreed Mr. Kimbole.
Sawdon's catch, which was made close to the backstop fence, ended the second half of the first inning. Rockville had been easily disposed of, chiefly due to Singleton's pitching.
The latter appeared to be at his best, starting out on the second round with confidence and determination. He sent the ball over the plate with a speed and accuracy which bewildered the batsmen. In succession he struck out two; the third was thrown out at first.
"They are all right on the defensive," said Mr. Barry. "Yes; the boys do seem to have improved."
For five innings neither side scored. At the beginning of the sixth the friends of the visitors were given a chance to yell and shout in the most uproarious fashion. Bill Allen, according to Benny Wilkins, "started the ball rolling."
And it rolled so far that by the time the stout editor of the "Reflector" succeeded in laying his hands upon its stained and battered surface Allen was on his way to third.
"Bad, bad business," grumbled Mr. Barry. "By George, they are going to score this time."
"Looks like it," mumbled "Uncle" Steve.
"Take him out of the box!" howled Benny Wilkins. "Hooray for 'Jack Frost'!"
Nothing ruffled Singleton, however. He was there to do his best, and he was doing it. He surveyed the big, husky form of Joe Wiles, third baseman, without trepidation.
"Give me the best in the shop," called Joe, shaking his bat suggestively.
Brentall signaled for a high inshoot.
The pitcher snapped the ball toward him, putting forth all his efforts to fool the batsman. Next moment, however, a prolonged groan announced that his attempt was wasted. The shrieking, gleeful Rockvillers, waving every available pennant, saw the ball shooting between first and second with terrific speed.
Bob Somers made a wild attempt to stop it, but the sphere bounded high over his head.
Meanwhile Bill Allen was trotting leisurely for home.
"Sic a Goose Hill gander on Singleton!" shouted Benny. "He's only good at pitching quoits. Get him a doughnut—quick."
"No—he takes the biscuit!" yelled Aleck Parks. "One run, and nobody down."
"I remember when I should have called that an exhibition well worth missing," observed Mr. Barry, with a sort of half chuckle. He smiled grimly, as a Rockville supporter was heard exclaiming:
"Did you ever see anything prettier in your life!"
Jeffords, the next batter, hit safely, advancing Wiles to second.
Singleton, catching a nod from Coach Steele, with a sigh walked toward the players' bench, while "Jack Frost," glad to get into the fray, dashed to the mound.
"Too bad my wing went back on me," exclaimed Singleton, as the two passed each other. "Good luck, old boy."
"Jack" signalized his advent in the box by promptly striking out the next batter.
When John Appleby walked briskly to the plate a storm of approval from the visiting contingent clearly demonstrated to the pitcher that he was considered one of the "star" hitters of the aggregation.
"Now is the time for some of your good stickwork, old boy!" yelled one. "Two men on bases and only one down. Start 'em around the circuit!"
The runners on first and second were doing all in their power to worry the twirler—playing off and running back.
"Take a few yards more, Wiles!" bawled the coach at first. "He won't throw it!"
"Jack Frost" realized that it was the critical juncture of the game. The sight of "Crackers" Brown and Owen Lawrence not far from the "grand stand" nerved him to do his utmost.
"Here's where I'll have to put everything I know on the ball," he reflected, warily watching the antics of the base-runners.
He wheeled abruptly around and shot the ball with all his force toward the batsman.
His heart gave a sudden thump as an ominous crack sounded.
The "slugger" Appleby had hit a low drive which was whizzing with terrific velocity to the right of second base.
"Safe—as sure as shooting!" groaned "Jack."
Bob Somers, with only one glance at the oncoming sphere, dashed toward it like a flash. It seemed almost a hopeless chance. The base runners, confident that the ball would pass over his head, obeyed the instructions of the coach to run. Benny Wilkins started to make a note: "High school team goes to pieces in the sixth." The shouting of the Rockville adherents burst forth in a wild series of whoops.
Then all the racket stopped with curious abruptness.
As the liner sped high above Bob Somers' head the second baseman sprang in the air with upraised hand. There was a resounding smack. The ball, arrested in its flight, dropped to the ground a few feet away.
Bob darted upon it, whipped the sphere to Tom Clifton, and Appleby was out.
The calm was over. Forgetting unpleasant differences, the school voiced its approval in a sea of sound. Benny hastily scratched out his note.
"One-eightieth of a cent's worth of good lead pencil gone to waste," he muttered. "Oh—oh! What do you know about that? Is Wiles wild?"
Joe, making a tremendous effort to score, was speeding home when, to his unbounded astonishment, he discovered that the ball was in the first baseman's hands. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it flashing straight for the catcher's mit.
Turning abruptly, he made a wild dive to regain the third sack. A volley of cries rang in his ears.
"Get back!"
"Hold your base!"
"Slide—slide!"
Obeying the instructions of his friends, Wiles threw himself at full length on the yellow, dusty line.
But before he was within a foot of the goal the ball streaked over his head, Fred Benson's hand dropped on his forearm, and the only sound which Joe heard clearly was the voice of the umpire yelling:
"Runner out at third!"
"A mighty pretty piece of work," commented Mr. Rupert Barry.
"A Jim dandy!" cried "Uncle" Steve, hilariously. "Regular major league work, I call it."
"I knew they would turn out all right!" exclaimed Captain Bunderley, his eyes shining with satisfaction. "I never lost faith in 'em—never!"
Victor Collins and Joe Rodgers, fairly dancing with glee, took turns with the bugle, sending its musical notes far over the air.
"There's the enemy of the 'Pie-eaters' going to bat now," remarked Nat Wingate to his chum, John Hackett.
"Only wish I had the stick in my hands," said Hackett. "I'd break it in half and knock the cover off the ball at the same time. Say, Nat, maybe the Stars wouldn't wade through this Rockville bunch!"
"I won't be satisfied until we get a crack at 'em," grinned Nat. "Bet they don't score a run."
"Look out for your heads, fellows," counseled Ted Pollock. "Tom Clifton's going to swing, and——"
"Suffering geese, he's cracked it!" roared "Uncle" Steve from the "grand stand." "A pippin, too; right over the second baseman's head. Hooray! He runs like an express train."
Hot and happy, Tom Clifton reached first in safety, while cries of "Good work, old boy; good work!" made his grin grow broader.
"Here's where we start things, 'Pinky'!" he cried, exultingly.
"Don't fool yourself. You won't travel very far," grinned the captain of the Rockvilles.
"Play off the base, Tom," urged "Jack Frost," who was coaching at first. "Jeffords'll never be fast enough to get you."
At the precise second that Jeffords pitched the ball Tom's long legs began to move at such an extraordinary rate as to cause murmurs of wonderment to come from the onlookers.
"By cracky, he can go faster'n the ball!" shouted "Uncle" Steve.
Professor Ivins scowled. He looked at the Goose Hill storekeeper with an air of profound disdain. The spectacle of a man of Mr. Kimbole's age acting in such an undignified fashion rather shocked his sensitive nature.
"If I were in your place I should hardly——"
"Bully boy!" roared Mr. Kimbole, suddenly. "Bully boy! He beat out the ball by a good two yards!"
The field was in an uproar again.
But the noise was as nothing compared to the tumult which broke out when Tom, on the twirler's second throw, once more dared to match his speed against that of their opponents.
Bending far over, he tore down the third base line with all his might, and, with the frantic shouts of the crowd ringing in his ears, slid for the sack, sending up puffs of whirling yellow dust.
"By gum, I'd like to have you on our side," said Joe Wiles, generously.
He lined the ball to Jeffords, while Tom scrambled to his feet, dusted his uniform and surveyed the situation keenly.
"This means a run, old boy," he exclaimed, confidently.
"Extra—extra!" came from somewhere in the assemblage. "All about the terrible robbery—ball player steals two bases. Who wants a copy of the high school 'Reflector'? Only five cents. Read Dave Brandon's thrilling piece of fiction. Greatest story since the days of Munchausen!"
Benny Wilkins, with an armful of papers, was screeching at the top of his voice.
"Why, he's actually selling them!" cried Tom, almost stunned with amazement.
"Sure! I've seen him sling out a dozen already," grinned Wiles.
Pitcher and catcher, who had been in conference for a moment, once more took their places.
"None down, Bob. Sting it for all you're worth," shouted Tom.
"Two balls!" droned the umpire, presently. "Strike one!"
Then Bob Somers was seen to make a lunge.
The ball rose in a long, graceful curve, shooting far beyond the point where John Appleby, right fielder, was playing.
"I told you so!" cried Tom.
Over on the "grand stand" Mr. Rupert Barry's face actually broke into a smile.
"Fine work—a three-bagger, Professor Hopkins," he said.
"Very good indeed!" exclaimed the president. "I should have been sorry to see such courageous boys fail."
"Looks to me as if they could deliver the goods," piped "Uncle" Steve; which style of language so displeased Professor Ivins that he remained ominously silent.
Bob raced in home when Brentall singled.
"Extra, extra!" cried Benny. "Get the latest news! All about the Rockville nine going to pieces!"
With Victor Collins and Joe Rodgers, he headed a little procession around the field, with the object, he candidly confessed, of rattling the visitors as much as possible.
The next batter, Alf Boggs, was thrown out at first. Tom Clifton's hopes that a half dozen runs would cross the plate before the inning was over were shattered by the downfall of "Jack Frost" and Art Bowers.
In the eighth the high school team, by a tremendous effort, scored another run, and the Rockville boys then walked to the players' bench for their final turn at the bat.
But their heroic efforts were without avail. When the last putout, a difficult running catch by Dave Brandon, signalized the end of the contest the score stood three to one in favor of the high school. The yells, cat-calls and general noise made the audience in the "grand stand" hastily withdraw. The staunch Somers party fairly howled with glee, and even "Crackers" Brown was heard to say:
"Not so bad—but——"
"But what, Buttermilk?" inquired Benny.
"If the 'Hopes' had been up against that crowd I'll bet the score would have been about seventeen pies to one small doughnut."
"You've got a better team than the regulars any day," said Benny, with a tremendous grin. "Extra—extra! Full account of the latest boasting by the Brown crowd. Get a high school 'Reflector'! Five cents. Tells how the Ramblers beat Gulliver at his own game!"
A joyous group collected around the regulars. They slapped Bob Somers on the back, ill-treated their tired lungs once again; and all this failing to give sufficient vent to their enthusiasm, they waved purple and white pennants until their aching arms finally rebelled.