Away went the ball, bounded against the plate and rolled to the net. The batsman raced to first and Amesville, players and friends, laughed and shouted gleefully. Angrily Smith slapped the ball into his glove as it came back, turned, and threw to first. The baseman, not expecting the throw, tried for it and failed, and as the ball shot past his finger-tips and rolled to the seats the runner dashed for second. He had all the time in the world to make the bag and reached it standing up. Smith, still scowling, got his signals, while from all sides came the howls and shrieks of the Amesville players. He was fair game now, it seemed, and in the stand they were kicking their feet and whistling and shouting across at him. Whether he was really being paid to pitch for Lynton none knew, but all were willing to believe it.
The catcher walked down and conferred a moment and Smith nodded grudgingly and went back to the mound. But Smith was annoyed and off his game for once. Two balls followed in succession. Then came a foul. After that a third ball. Amesville jeered and redoubled her noise. Smith, trying his best to regain command of the ball, took much time between deliveries now, wound up slowly, and sped the ball away with care. But his time had come, for there was a smart crack, a streak of grey across the diamond, and the runner on second was digging for third, while down the first-base line raced the batter. Well out of the reach of shortstop or second baseman shot the ball, head-high, as clean and hard a drive to deep centre as one would want to see. Centre fielder reached it as it took its first bound, set himself, and sped the ball to second baseman and second baseman turned and pegged it to the plate. But the Blues had scored the tying run before the ball reached the catcher, and, although that youth threw well and quickly to second, the runner had taken advantage of the throw-in and was sitting comfortably, if breathlessly, on the bag!
How Amesville cheered and clapped and pounded the boards with excited feet! And what a scurrying and jostling there was about the bench as Tom, conferring with Mr. Talbot, chose a hitter to go to bat for Gordon Smith. It was Pete Farrar who was at last selected. Pete, although a pitcher, was a pretty good hitter in the pinches, and it was Pete who was now to prove the wisdom of his selection. For Pete landed on the second ball offered him and sent it arching into the very right-hand corner of the field! And, although the ball was caught after a run, it didn’t reach the infield again until the runner from second was sliding to third!
One out, then, and a man on third base! And one run needed to give the lead to Amesville! And the occupants of the stand on their feet, shouting and stamping and begging a hit! It was Sam who walked to the plate, Sam a little bit nervous and trying to make up his mind whether to follow Mr. York’s advice and take a short swing or follow the method he knew best. But he hadn’t had time to learn Mr. York’s way yet, and when, after sending a ball, Pitcher Smith sped one across the outer corner, knee-high, Sam’s effort went for naught. Another ball followed, one that passed the end of Sam’s nose and sent him “bucketting” away from the plate. And then there was another that looked good and again Sam, with shortened bat, tried his level best to connect with it and only popped a fly behind the Lynton bench. With the score two-and-two, Sam let his bat slide down until his hands were grasping the very end of it and then swung it well behind his shoulder and waited. After all, every man to his trade, he thought! Then Smith was stepping forward and the ball was coming and Sam—well, Sam was revolving on one heel and the ball was snugly nestled in the catcher’s mitt, and Sam was out!
Amesville howled with disappointment and, in the ardour of the moment, jeered Sam as he walked back to the bench. Tom, passing on his way to the plate, smiled reassuringly and murmured, “Hard luck, Sam!” Sam thought so, too.
On third the runner was dancing back and forth along the path to the plate, and everyone was talking as Tom tapped the end of his bat on the ground, rubbed his hands reflectively on his trouser legs, and then faced the pitcher. Smith was recovering now from his brief and disastrous slump, and Tom secretly had slight hopes of success. But he looked confident enough and smiled as he said something to the Lynton catcher and received a scowl in reply. The first delivery whizzed past at lightning speed and Tom knew it was a strike before the umpire opened his mouth. Then came a drop that he refused to bite at, although it looked good until the last moment. Again he let one go by, a high one that might have been good or bad, and proved bad. From the bench came encouraging cries, “You’ve got him in a hole, Tom!” “Stick to him!” “He’s got to pitch ’em!” “Here’s the one, Tom! Baste it!”
Smith was holding the ball under his chin, watching the catcher’s fingers. He shook his head. The catcher signalled again. Smith threw back his arm, raised his foot, and——
“If you’re getting more than your railway fare, Nick, you’re cheating ’em!”
Smith unwound and pitched, but his tormenter had settled the fate of that ball! A foot over the frantically upstretched hand of the catcher it flew, and Tom, having his wits about him, struck at it wildly and raced to first, while in from third base, urged on by a galloping, shrieking coach, came the runner with the longed-for tally!
Pandemonium reigned! Mr. Hall pounded Mr. Talbot on the back and Mr. Talbot slapped Mr. Hall on the knee, and the other occupants of the bench danced and capered ecstatically! And while the catcher was recovering the ball and the pitcher was guarding the plate, Tom Pollock rounded first at full speed and sped away to second. And he reached it long before the ball did, and then, getting to his feet and slapping the dust from his clothes, he smiled sweetly at the scowling baseman.