On the scorers’ books the two teams were recorded as follows:
| MANHATTAN FRESHMEN. | YALE FRESHMEN. |
|---|---|
| O’Mora, 2d b. | Tucker, ss. |
| Bestock, cf. | Lynch, 1st b. |
| Hanley, rf. | Buckhart, c. |
| Marone, ss. | Claxton, 2d b. |
| Snaith, 1st b. | Jones, lf. |
| Carney, lf. | Spratt, cf. |
| Halloran, 3d b. | Bigelow, rf. |
| McDougal, c. | Fitch, 3d b. |
| Hogan, p. | Kates, p. |
Dead silence fell on the assembled spectators as Kates walked into the box. Sam’s keen ears fancied this silence was broken by a number of repressed groans. Involuntarily, he flashed a look of resentment toward his classmates on the seats. Then he threw a few to Mike Lynch, just to give his wing a last limbering, whirling and facing O’Mora as the umpire called: “Play.”
Sam’s first ball was far too high. O’Mora grinned and held his bat above his head in a derisive manner after the ball had passed.
The next one was straight over, and the Manhattan headliner met it with a sharp, snappy swing. It was a pretty line drive, which whistled past Kates ere Sam could thrust out a hand for it. With anxiety in his heart, the pitcher whirled like a flash, making the relieving discovery that Rob Claxton had seized the ball and clung to it like grim death.
“Clever work, Clax—clever work!” cried Buckhart heartily. “That’s the way to do it.”
Kates grinned approvingly, and received the ball tossed to him by the Virginian. O’Mora had started for first, but he turned back, shaking his head in a disgusted manner.
“Never mind,” called Captain Mike Marone, of the visitors. “That was a case of horseshoe. Get after him, Bestock! Start us off now!”
Bestock, one of the clever hitters of the visitors, waited until Kates bent one over, and then nailed it with terrific force.
It was a scorching hot grounder, but, with an electrified sidelong leap, Tommy Tucker forked the sizzling ball with his bare right hand. Tucker was whirled round in his tracks with a toplike motion, but managed to keep his feet, recovered, and sent the ball across to Lynch.