“You’ll be no worse off than I will,” he muttered. “We’ll both be in the same boat. Ha, look at that! By George! it’s good for a run. Too bad! They’re going to score!”
The batter had driven a liner toward left field, and the runner on third unhesitatingly started toward the plate.
“Watch! watch!” exclaimed Fernald. “Halligan is after it.”
“He can’t get it,” said Hammerswell.
But the next moment he sprang up with a cry of satisfaction and relief, for Halligan had leaped into the air and captured the ball with one hand.
Immediately the Maplewood left fielder threw to Lumley at third, making a double play, as the base runner was unable to get back to the bag in time.
“Great stuff!” breathed Tom Fernald, in untold relief. “That kept them from scoring.”
“It did,” nodded Hammerswell, sitting down again; “but once more it was a piece of luck for us. We can’t depend wholly on luck.”
“Push your team now,” urged Fernald. “Make them get into this thing and win.”
Once more Dick Merriwell walked into the box, his eye clear, his determination firm and unshaken. Connor was the first man to face him.