“Get old ‘south-paw,’ Winnie,” called one of the players to the pitcher.
The twirler grinned and nodded. He was confident, for he had been fooling Burton all day on a slow drop. To start off, he sent a straight whistler over the plate so near to the batter that Burton was forced to jump back. Then the pitcher fancied he had his man unnerved. The spectators were shouting and cheering, trying to rattle both pitcher and batter.
The second ball was a slow drop. Burton waited for it, got under it, hit it, lifted it into the air with awful force. Away it flew over the ground and down among the cottages, and, when last seen, it was bounding merrily among the trees, making for the lake, which showed blue in the distance.
Round the bases sped the runners, and three scores came in before the ball was overtaken and returned. It was a “homer” for Burton, and he had placed Newport one score in the lead.
The crowd cheered itself hoarse, and the boys from Pittsfield looked disgusted.
The next batter sent up an easy one for the shortstop, and Newport was out.
The M. C. I.’s came in growling. They were determined to win the game by hard batting in the ninth.
“Get onto Burton, fellows,” said the captain. “We must do it right here. We can if we try.”
They did try, but Burton was doing great work just about that time. He had won the game by his hit, and now he did not propose to lose it by his work in the box.
The bases filled up, however, with only one man out. A good hit meant two runs.