“You must do it, Mark!” yelled Frank, at the top of his lungs. “Go in, old boy, and win! Whoop her up for old Lakeview!” And then the others took up the cry, that is, all but Hockley, who, true to his nickname, remained as glum as ever.
When Mark stepped up to the home plate it was with a determination to “do or die” right then and there. He grasped the ash stick firmly, planted his feet and took a good, hard hold of his nerves.
The Cuban pitcher eyed him curiously. He was a “new proposition” and the pitcher hardly knew how to handle him. He stepped back, gave the catcher a sign, and delivered a swift out curve. Mark let it go by.
“Ball one!” called the umpire.
“That’s right, take your time!” yelled Frank. He was standing up and so was everybody else in the stand.
In came the ball again and this time Mark struck at it but missed.
“Strike one!”
A loud yelling went up from the Cubans.
Mark took a firmer grip than ever. It must be confessed that he was in an agony of mind. What if he should “fan out?” He was certain that club would never forgive him. And he was equally certain that he should never forgive himself.
And then came a ball waist high and directly over the plate, a beautiful ball, and just where Mark wanted it. Around came the bat in one swift drive. There was a crack, and the ball went sailing down into deep center field.