With his hands thrust deep into his pockets, Mr. Bradlaugh sat in growing hopelessness while Spink and Reckless fanned. It looked as though it was all over. Many of the Gold Hillers in the automobiles began to toot their horns triumphantly, and to prepare to leave. Those in the grand stand and on the bleachers were already congratulating each other.
With two out, the swarthy backstop was leading the forlorn hope. What could he accomplish, in the face of defeat that seemed absolutely certain?
There was nothing about the catcher, as he picked up his club and stepped to the plate, which suggested that he was either nervous or discouraged. He was there to do his best, and thoughts of failure did not seem to bother him in the least.
No one, not even the Ophirites, had much to say to the backstop. It seemed, to almost every one except Merriwell and the catcher, as though the game was irretrievably lost. Merry and the catcher, however, were still hoping against hope.
Darrel, perhaps too confident of victory, allowed a ball to cross the plate just about where the catcher wanted it. With a crack that sounded like the report of a rifle he lifted the horsehide far out between left and center.
The smack of bat against ball at once claimed the attention of the crowd.
Those who were on the point of leaving stood in their tracks and faced around to follow proceedings on the diamond.
“It’s only a flurry,” the Gold Hillers said to each other. “There are two out, and not a ghost of a chance for Ophir tying the score. They’re dying hard, though.”
Stark, in center field, managed to pick up the ball and to fling it in. He was so quick with it that the catcher was prevented from making a try for third.
Clancy was the next batter. His flagging hopes had been revived. After him came Merriwell. If Clancy could only make good use of the swatstick, a whole chain of gorgeous possibilities would flash through the murky skies that encompassed Ophir.