Joe Groom picked out a bat and faced the pitcher, scowling intently. At second Simpson took a long lead, but watched the ball closely. On third Steve had grown suddenly shy and hugged the bag until the ball was in the air. But the coachers kept up their din and the infield still played short-field and Mr. Williams looked a little bit anxious. The first offer was a straight ball right across the plate and Joe Groom frowned. The next was wide and evened the score. Then a curve fooled Joe completely and his vicious swing at it passed harmlessly by.
“Two-and-one!” called Hanford hoarsely. “Let’s have him now!”
Mr. Williams smiled grimly, began his wind-up and—faltered! For there, running like a grey-legged rabbit along the path, sped Steve! Mr. Williams recovered quickly, stepped forward and shot the ball to Hanford. Some two hundred voices shrieked together. Joe Groom held his place grimly, his eyes fixed on the ball, his bat poised. But there was no need of offering, for that one instant of hesitation had done the business. The ball, sent away as an out-curve, broke wildly, and although Hanford, dropping to his knees, threw himself in the way of it, it trickled past, and Steve, sliding to the plate in a maelstrom of dust, had scored!
Joe and half a dozen others lifted him to his feet. Above the outburst of joy from the third-base side of the diamond could be heard Mr. Gifford’s reiterated ejaculation of “You old thief! You old thief!” Off to the bench they hustled him, shaking his hand, thumping his back. Down at first base Ed Thursby was trying hard to stand on his head and wave his legs. Behind third Sam was absolutely grinning!
And then, order restored again, Joe Groom stood idly by and watched Mr. Williams put two balls past, and then walked to first.
“Let’s have a couple more!” shouted Thursby. “We’ve got ’em going, fellows! Let’s——”
But the rest was drowned in the cheer that Dick Barry was leading. But, although Ed took second unchallenged on a passed ball, Tom Crossbush failed to deliver the required hit, popping a miserable little foul to Hanford, and the side was out.
Five to four was the score now, and “Hold ’em!” pleaded The Wigwam supporters. “Hold ’em!”
Walters, Connell, and Phillips were up for Mount Placid in that last of the ninth, and Mr. Gifford was a victim to dire forebodings as he stepped into the pitcher’s box. Nothing he possessed, he felt sure, would deceive the two councillors, and so it was up to the fielders to hold the game safe. Walters was far too anxious and nervous and put himself to the bad at once by fouling the first two deliveries. Then, growing cautious, he misjudged the next ball and stepped aside.