Then, as the Lynton pitcher wound up again, Tom got the signal from Walter. The ball floated lazily toward him, dropping slowly as it came. “There he goes!” shouted the Lynton infield, and Walter was sprinting for second. Tom swung hard at the ball, missed it cleanly, and heard it thud into the catcher’s mitten. He knew enough not to step out of the way and so held his place stolidly at the plate while the Lynton catcher, tossing off his mask, side-stepped and hurled the ball to second. But there was desperation in Walter’s effort and he had hooked one foot into the base before the shortstop swung down at him. After that Tom was free to do as he liked and he refused the next delivery and the umpire endorsed his judgment by calling it a ball. He began then to hope that he might get his base as a gift, but with three balls against him the Lynton pitcher settled down and curved one over the corner of the plate and Tom never even offered at it. He felt rather cheap as he walked back to the bench under the hoots of the audience.
“Hard luck,” said Tommy as he passed to take his turn. Tom seated himself and watched Tommy’s efforts. Tommy had a strike called on him, popped a foul back of third baseman, and then let go at the next ball and hit safely through second baseman, advancing Walter to third. But the next batsman was young Peddie and, after swinging wildly at the first three balls offered him, he and the side retired together.
Lynton started their half of the ninth with a vast amount of confidence and a very evident intention of pulling the game out of the fire. Nevertheless, Walter managed to strike out the first batsman, and, with the weak hitters coming up, it seemed that possibly, after all, the Blues might win out. But the next man got his base on balls and jogged to second a moment later when a wild pitch got by Buster and rolled to the fence. That seemed to be Walter’s undoing, for after that he was as wild and uncontrolled as a hawk. With one strike and three balls on the second batsman, he made a desperate effort to put a low one across and managed to hit the man in the leg. By that time the stand was in an uproar and Walter began to show nervousness. The next batter hit safely and the bases were filled. Behind the Blues’ captain the infield were doing their best to encourage him and pull him together.
“Take your time, Walt! Lots o’ time! Let him hit it!” “You’re doing fine, old man! Don’t let ’em worry you! Put over a few; we’re here!”
But Walter’s arm had lost what little cunning it had possessed. Now and then he managed to get a ball over the plate, and when he did a rude Lynton batsman would rap it. Even the very tail-enders were hitting him now and in a trice the tying run came in and the bases were still full, with but two out. Walter faced the next batter desperately, got Buster’s signal, and let drive. It was a wild effort and only by dropping flat on the ground was Buster able to stop the ball and keep the man on third from racing home. When he got to his feet again he turned to the umpire and asked for time. Then, amidst the jeering shouts of the audience, he walked down to the box.
“Look here, Walt,” he said quietly, “you’re all in. If we can keep the score tied up, we may win in the next inning. Isn’t there any other fellow who can pitch a little!”
Walter looked hopelessly about the field and shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Most any of them could do better than I’m doing now, though, I guess.” He called to Smith and that youth joined them.
“Smithie, can you pitch at all?” asked Walter.
Smith shook his head. “I suppose I could shy the ball somewhere near the plate, but I guess that’s about all. Say, Pollock can pitch a little. I’ve seen him working with Sid Morris. He isn’t much, I guess, but he has something on it. Why don’t you give him a chance, Walt? He’d do a heap better than I could, anyway.”
“Tom Pollock!” Walter shouted and waved to where Tom was sitting on his heels over in left. “Come in here!” Then, turning to Buster: “You go back to first and I’ll catch again. I can do that,” he added disgustedly, “if I can’t pitch. Say, Pollock,” he went on as Tom trotted up, “can you pitch any?”