“Fan him!” shrieked the Blue Stockings’ supporters wildly, their hopes beginning to rise again. “Fan him, Lefty! You’ve got to do it.”
Lefty hesitated a second, his face cool and impenetrable, the muscles of his jaw sharply defined. He felt that the batter would expect him to try a coaxer; for, with no balls called, most pitchers would feel that they could afford to waste one or two.
He glanced round, his foot on the slab. When he turned back, he pitched without the slightest preliminary swing, sending over a high, straight, speedy ball. It had been his object to catch Burns unprepared, and he succeeded. The batter struck a second too late, and the ball spanked into Nelson’s glove.
“Out!” called the umpire.
But the word was not heard because of the deafening roar which rose from the delighted visitors.
Lefty was scarcely conscious of the turmoil. It sounded faint and far away, like the beating of breakers on a rocky coast, and mingled insensibly with the words [he was saying] over and over [to himself:]
[“One more! Only one more! I must get him—I’ve got to!”]
He dared not risk a glance at that upper box. The moment was too tense. And yet in his mind he pictured the girl leaning breathlessly over the railing, her tiny gloved hands clasped rigidly together, her face a little pale, her violet eyes wide open and almost black with excitement. She must not be disappointed—she should not!
How Sandy Rollins missed the first ball he reached for was something he never understood. When he struck, he felt absolutely certain that he would meet it full upon the trademark. His failure brought a ludicrous expression of surprise to his face.
The Blue Stockings’ rooters yelled madly. Most of them were on their feet now, staring down into the diamond. The opposing fans, beginning to lose hope, divided their efforts between hurling caustic comments at the batter and trying to break the pitcher up.