When Jolliby reached first on a dropped third strike, and Singleton followed him on four balls, the thugs decided it was time to do something.
With his hands on his hips, McLane was watching. He saw one of the ruffians back of third base hurl a stone at Singleton. The stone struck big Bob in the back of the neck and knocked him to his hands and knees.
Then the lobsterman let out a roar like that of an enraged lion. He shouted an order to his companions, and they leaped forward and caught up the bats of the Fairhaven players.
“Charge!” thundered McLane.
Without a moment’s delay, the stonecutters charged at the lobsterman’s heels, and he led them into the mob of hoodlums back of the first-base line.
The bats began to rise and fall, and thudding blows were followed with howls of pain, while the ruffians fell over one another in their desperate attempt to get away.
“Out of the gate!” shouted McLane. “Get off the field or we’ll annihilate every one of yer!”
The thugs offered little resistance. Some of them were beaten down and trampled on. Those who could fled toward the gate and lost no time in obeying the lobsterman’s order. Like a lot of cattle the most of them were driven from the field. Some were badly injured, and two or three were dragged off by their friends.
The spectators who were not concerned in this encounter stood up and watched it breathlessly. The few ladies who remained on the field were badly frightened, and some of the men who accompanied them were alarmed.
It was all over in a surprisingly short time. Having driven the leaders of the mob off and warned them not to return unless they were seeking broken heads, McLane led his triumphant little band back to the Fairhaven bench.