The ball was relayed from second by a beautiful throw. Bleeker nabbed it and reached for Merry. But, at that moment, Merry’s feet were on the plate.
“Safe!” bellowed the umpire.
That was the signal for bedlam to be turned loose. There was still a chance for Ballard to bat, but the game was won, and what was the use of prolonging the agony?
Spectators scrambled into the field and a rush was made for the panting and dusty Merriwell. Those who could not get near Merry rushed at Clancy, and those who failed to reach Clancy made a set at the swarthy backstop.
It was remembered that honors were due equally to the three lads who had brought in the runs. It was the catcher who had started the batting rally, and had he not got a hit there would have been no chance for Clancy and Merriwell.
Colonel Hawtrey was one of those who had failed to come close to Merry and Clancy and had turned to the backstop.
“My boy,” said he, his voice a-thrill with excitement, “you started a bit of the finest and most sportsmanlike work I have ever seen pulled off on a ball ground. I wish to congratulate you, and——”
The colonel paused. The streams of sweat, which were pouring down the backstop’s face, were leaving little gutters of white in the swarthy hue of his cheeks.
“You’re not a Mexican!” exclaimed the colonel.
“No,” agreed the youth, standing his ground. “I never said I was a Mexican, colonel.”