It was two and two now. Sam did not intend that Tom should waste any, for he signalled for a low one outside. And Tom pulled at his visor, hitched up his trousers, glanced idly about the bases, and fingered the ball. Then back went his arms behind his head, up came his foot, and——
“There he goes!” shrieked a dozen voices. A babel of warning shouts burst on the air. Half-way between third and home the runner, head down and legs twinkling, was eating up the space. At the plate Sam Craig with outstretched hands begged for the ball!
Tom was in the middle of his wind-up when the warning reached him and it seemed to him afterward that in one brief atom of time he did more thinking than could ordinarily be crowded into the space of a full minute. His startled glance showed him that if he was to head off the runner he must get the ball to the catcher like a streak. But, he reasoned, if he pitched hurriedly he might pitch wildly, and a passed ball meant not only that run but another one besides, for the man at second was already streaking to third. Even if a run crossed the plate the score would still be 3 to 2 in Amesville’s favour. All this passed through Tom’s mind in a twinkling, in such a period of time, perhaps, as allowed the flying runner to twice set foot to ground. And not for even so brief a time had Tom paused in his delivery. What indecision there was was of his mind only, for his muscles went through their routine smoothly, his body lunged forward, his arm shot out, and away shot the ball.
But Sam never got that throw, and the runner from third, with a frantic slide, scored undisputed. For Tom, instead of pitching to the plate, had stepped out of the box and hurled the ball to Bert Meyers at third. It went hard and straight, and Bert, although he was not expecting it, was ready for it when it came to him breast-high. The ball slammed into his glove, he stepped one stride along the path, and the runner from second, seeing his danger too late to stop and double back, dived for the bag. [But down came Bert’s arm and it was all over!]
On to the diamond flooded the triumphant partisans of the Brown-and-Blue. Cheers filled the air. Tom, struggling in vain, was heaved to the shoulders of two joy-maddened youths and held there by others. Surprised and breathless, clutching for support, he looked down over the heads of the laughing, shouting crowd that surged across the field. The other players had been captured, or most of them at least, for Tom saw them here and there above the crowd. Frank Warner, grinning, came swaying by on the shoulders of a pushing trio.
“Bully work, Pollock!” he shouted.
Then Tom’s bearers fell in behind and in a moment there was a procession of captured players swaying here and there around the diamond. Tom caught sight of Mr. Cummings, red-faced, shouting unintelligibly; of Mr. George, a wide smile on his face; and of May Warner, standing straight and exultant at the front of the stand and waving a brown-and-blue banner. As Tom passed she caught his eye and waved more wildly than ever. And Tom found himself actually smiling at her!
And then, a little farther on toward the gate, his bearers were crowded close to the edge of the stand and his gaze, passing a trifle shamefacedly over the faces that lined it, fell on the laughing countenance of Mrs. Morris. She clapped her hands as she saw him, and then:
“Tom! Tom!” she called across. “Do be careful of your hair!”