“I don’t believe he is rattled, just the same. I think he will hit the ball, even if he doesn’t get a——”
Crack! Hal hit it. He hit it savagely, too, and it went out like a bullet.
Flint was running when bat and ball met, and the speed of the stocky lad as he dashed over second and tore down toward third was surprising to all who did not know his ability.
It was a clean two-bagger, and as Hal dashed down to second he saw Conway gathering up the ball. With the ball in Conway’s hands, good judgment should have stopped Darrell at second base. Flint, however, had crossed third and was trying to score. Darrell became ambitious to stretch his two-base hit into a three-bagger, or his anger robbed him of judgment, or perchance, he was reckless of consequences, for he kept on toward third.
Conway lined the ball into Crockett’s hands. Crockett whirled, and a single glance showed him it was too late to cut off the run.
“Third!” rang out Roberts’ clear voice. “Third it!”
On a dead line the ball sped from Crockett’s hands into those of Macon, who put it onto Hal with ease.
This made the third man out.
“Well, of all the fool tricks!” muttered Buckhart, in disgust. “What made him try that? Tubbs was squawking for him to hold second. He lost his head completely.”
Dick said nothing, but somehow a strange feeling of uncertainty came over him. As he walked out to the pitcher’s box he spoke to Hal, slowly shaking his head.