The ninth inning began, and it was Harvard’s last chance. Bowen, almost ready to admit that his team was beaten, was first at the bat, and, frantic with the determination to save the day, began with a slashing drive to left that put him on second. Jim Phillips smiled at Brady, not a bit concerned, but the next play went wrong. The Harvard batter bunted, and Sherman, running in, saw a chance to catch Bowen at third. He threw to Carter, but the throw was the fifth of a second too late, and both runners were safe. A clean steal put the man on first on second base, and Reid, smiling and cheerful, was the next man up.
Jim knew him for the most dangerous batter on the whole Harvard team. He pitched five balls to him, and at their end the count was three balls and two strikes. Reid had refused to bite on any one of the three curves—he had not struck at either of the strikes, because he had seen what they were too late. The next ball would settle matters. Brady, more disturbed even than Jim, walked out to speak to him. They had to get close together to be able to hear, for the din from the stands was deafening.
“You fooled him on that cross-fire ball in the first inning,” said Brady.
“That’s a dangerous ball,” said Jim, shaking his head. “I think he’s just waiting for me to use it again.”
“Try it,” Bill insisted.
And Jim, against his better judgment, and because he deferred always to Bill’s signals in such an emergency, pitched the ball that Brady wanted.
It was the ball Reid wanted, too. He had anticipated such a chance since the very beginning of the game. He saw it coming, recognized the swing of Jim’s shoulders as he pitched, and he bared his teeth in a happy grin as he saw it approaching. Then, squaring his big shoulders, he put all his power into the drive, and sent the ball hurtling far over the centre fielder’s head.
The Harvard crowd went mad. Round and round the bases the crimson legs twinkled, Reid racing as if he were pursued by demons. Two men scored—if Reid got home the score would be tied. But he had to stop at third. The score was three to two in Yale’s favor—a man was on third, and none was out. Dick Merriwell groaned. It was the tightest hole that Jim had ever been in. Briggs, as fresh as when the game began, looked good for a dozen innings more, while Jim, already very tired—and no wonder!—could hardly last for a tenth.
But Harvard had not tied the score yet. Jim, calmly confident, grinned at Brady, stricken by remorse for his error of judgment, and settled himself down to work.
Bowen had raced back, as soon as he had scored, to the coacher’s box behind third base, where he could take control of his team and see to it that the most was made of the sudden chance to win the game, a rally at the eleventh hour, when all hope seemed to be gone.