“Now, do your prettiest, Clan,” urged Merry. “You’ll never have a better chance to do something.”
“Watch me, that’s all,” grinned the red-headed chap. “Here’s where I make up for some of my errors.”
Then an awful thing happened. Clancy hit a long fly. The coacher thought the fielder couldn’t possibly get it, and started Reckless to third. But the fielder, making a magnificent running catch, took the ball in out of the wet and whipped it to second.
That was all; and the best chance Ophir had yet had to score was lost. The Gold Hillers began to sing, and some of the more demonstrative marched in a procession around the grand stand, using their megaphones to “rub it into” the Ophirites.
The score remained two to nothing. By magnificent work, Merriwell and his swarthy backstop continued adding ciphers to the Gold Hill score, but they were not able to get any runs for themselves.
“Something’s bound to happen yet, colonel,” said Mr. Bradlaugh, in the second half of the eighth. “I shouldn’t wonder if the balloon would go up about here.”
“The score would have been twenty to nothing,” declared Colonel Hawtrey, “if Merriwell and that Mexican catcher hadn’t stood like a wall between our boys and first. By Jove! I never saw steadier or more clear-headed work, and right in the face of the worst support I ever heard of. You can thank your battery, Bradlaugh, for getting off easy this afternoon.”
“Perhaps,” answered the general manager hopefully, “we’ll be able to thank our battery for more than that.”
“I can admire your grit, anyhow,” laughed Hawtrey, “even if I can’t applaud your judgment. You are right about one thing, though, Bradlaugh: A game is never finished until the last man is out.”
The Gold Hillers, who had hoped to roll up a big score, were now contenting themselves with merely holding their opponents. Two runs would be enough. They would win one of the hardest games ever contested on the Ophir diamond.