Dick Randall, the Young Athlete

by Ellery H. Clark

On the next play their short-stop, in an endeavor to catch the runner coming from second base, threw wild to third; another base on balls followed; and then, just at the psychological moment, Ferguson, the heavy hitter of the Clinton team, sent a screaming three-bagger far over the center-fielder's head. Altogether, by the time Hopevale had steadied again, and the inning had ended, they found the score eleven to five against them; and although they made one run in the eighth, and another in the ninth, that was all, and it was Clinton's game, eleven to seven. Supporters of both Fenton and Clinton breathed again. One of them would win, and the other lose, but Hopevale, their common enemy, had not yet secured the cup.

The succeeding Saturday was the banner day of the sports. Ten o'clock in the morning was the time set for the final ball game; and the boat race was scheduled for three in the afternoon. The ball game was played on the Clinton grounds, yet four carloads of spectators went down from Fenton to cheer for their nine, and filled a good-sized section of the grandstand with their crimson flags. Jim Putnam, with the rest of the crew, stayed at home, to store up the last final ounce of energy for the afternoon. Dick, Allen, Brewster and Lindsay sat together, watching the tall and ungainly Prescott going through his gyrations as he warmed up for the game. He appeared, as Allen remarked, to be a "tough proposition." His delivery was so deceptively easy that one scarcely realized the speed and power behind it, until the ball struck, with a vicious "thut," in the catcher's glove. And his curves looked as formidable as his speed. Brewster sighed as he watched him. "Now how are they going to hit a fellow like that?" he asked.

Allen, the optimistic, made haste to answer, "Oh, you can't tell," he said, "he may get tired before he gets through. And we've got a better fielding team than they have, I know. Besides, when you're talking about pitchers, Ed Nichols is no slouch. You can bet they won't knock him out of the box. Our show is as good as theirs."

As he spoke, the umpire consulted for a moment with Jarvis, the Fenton captain, and Crawford, the leader of the Clinton team. Then the coin spun upward into the air, and immediately the Clinton players scattered to their positions in the field, and the Fenton nine took their places on the visitors' bench. "There," said Brewster, "bad luck to start with. We've lost the toss."

There followed the tense hush which always precedes the beginning of a championship game. The umpire tossed out a new ball, which the elongated Prescott at once proceeded to deface by rubbing it around, with great thoroughness, in the dirt. Abbot, the Fenton short-stop, stepped to the plate, and the umpire gave the time-honored command, "Play ball!"

The redoubtable Prescott eyed the batsman for an instant with what seemed to the Fenton crowd a glare of hate, held the ball extended before him, then, in Allen's phrase, "tied himself up into a number of double bow-knots," and let fly. Abbot made no attempt to strike at the ball; it appeared to be traveling too high; yet just before it reached the plate it shot quickly downward, and the umpire called, "Strike--one."

At the second ball Abbot made a terrific lunge, but met only the air, and a moment later, as Stevens, the Clinton catcher, moved up behind the bat, a fast inshoot neatly cut the corner of the plate, and with the words, "Strike--three--striker out," Abbot walked dejectedly back to the bench.

Crosby, the second man up, had slightly better fortune, for, as Allen remarked, in an endeavor to keep up the courage of the others, "he had a nice little run for his money," hitting an easy grounder to second base, and being thrown out at first. Sam Eliot, the third man to face Prescott, followed Abbot's example, and struck out. The Fenton half of the inning ended in gloom.

Now came Clinton's turn at the bat. Bates, the first man up, had two strikes called on him, and then hit a clean, swift ball over second base, and reached first in safety. Crawford, the Clinton captain, bunted, advancing Bates to second. Then Nichols settled down to work, and Davenport, the third batsman, was retired on strikes. Two out, a man on second, and Ferguson, the much-dreaded heavy hitter, at the bat, Nichols and Jarvis held consultation, and as a result Ferguson was given his base on balls. It seemed good generalship, yet in the sequel, it proved unfortunate, for Gilbert, the next man up, made a tremendous drive far out into center field and never stopped running until he had reached third, while Bates and Ferguson crossed the plate. The Clinton section of the grandstand became delirious with enthusiasm, in the midst of which Manning, the sixth man at bat for the home team, hit weakly to Nichols, and was thrown out at first. Two to nothing. It looked like Clinton's day.

Nor did Fenton's chances seem brighter in the second. Again three men came to bat, and again they were retired, without one of them reaching first. Yet there was comfort in the latter half of the inning, for Nichols steadied down, and proved as much of a puzzle as Prescott himself. The Clinton men, in their turn, went out in one, two, three order, and the hopes of the Fenton supporters faintly revived.