Fardale field was a pandemonium.
Grand stand and bleachers alike were crazy with excitement. The band, unheard, blared forth amid the din. Men shouted and shrieked for the score to be tied, begged Merry to crack out another homer, hit each other over the head, and threatened to smash the stands with their frenzied stamping.
With suddenness that was almost appalling, the din died away as Villum Kess was seen walking out to the plate. The rooters held their breath.
“That settles it,” groaned a man near Colonel Gunn’s box. “That dunderhead will be the first out—it’s all over.”
“Confound your impertinence, sir!” roared the irate colonel, twisting about and threatening the fan with personal violence. “It’s not—ah—all over till the last man has—ah—gone down!”
Then he turned and sent another roar at the field.
“Get a hit! Get a hit!”
The crowd took up the swinging words. “Get a hit! Get a hit!” rose the thunder of many voices, pierced by the shrill yells of the Clipper fans, who implored Green to “Hold ’em down!”
Then Kess stepped into the box, and instantly the silence fell anew.
“Yaw!” squawked the Dutch lad, his voice sounding distinctly all over the field. “Didn’t I toldt you I vos goin’ to dood it! You vos a skinch, so hellup me!”