“Safe!” yelled the umpire.
As Buckhart came to the plate, Dick took a good lead off the cushion, and, with the first ball pitched, he was away toward second running like a fiend.
“There’s nothing the matter with his legs,” chuckled Gardiner, as the Yale man picked himself up and dusted off the front of his shirt, one foot on the bag. “I only hope he don’t jolt that lame wing of his too much.”
This was just what Merriwell was taking particular pains not to do. He slid either feet first, or on his left side, and, though the shoulder gave a painful twinge now and then, he hoped it would hold out.
Meanwhile the big Texan, assured and smiling, squared himself at the plate. He refused to be fooled by the first ball, which went a little wide; but he presently picked out one of McDonough’s benders which seemed to suit him, hitting it fair and square with a sharp, snappy swing which sent it out on a line.
It was a clean drive to the outfield, and two fielders chased the ball while Brad tore over first and managed to reach second a moment after Dick crossed the plate to the accompaniment of shrieks from the crowd, who billowed to their feet in the excitement of the moment, wildly waving hats and arms and shouting themselves hoarse.
The Field Club team had made a run.
CHAPTER XIII.
AGAINST HEAVY ODDS.
Gardiner was jubilant. With a run already, a man on second, and only one out, things were picking up.