Dick Randall, the Young Athlete

by Ellery H. Clark

Four more innings passed without another run being scored. It was a genuine pitchers' battle, man after man, on either side, striking out, hitting easy grounders to the infield, or popping up abortive flies. The beginning of the seventh, however, brought a change. Jarvis was the first man at bat for Fenton, and he started things auspiciously by making a pretty single, close along the third base foul line. It seemed like the time for taking chances, and on the next ball pitched, he started for second, and aided by a poor throw by Stevens, the Clinton catcher, made it in safety. Taylor, the next man at bat, struck a sharp, bounding grounder toward second base, and the Hopevale second-baseman ingloriously let it go through his legs. The Fenton crowd in the grandstand, long deprived of a chance to cheer, shouted themselves hoarse. A man on third, and one on first, and no one out. The chances for tying the score looked bright.

At this point, however, Prescott exerted all his skill. Warren, coached to hit the ball at any cost, tried his best, but in vain. One strike--one ball--two strikes--two balls--three strikes, and out. It was Clinton's turn to exult. Nichols, the weakest batsman on the Fenton team, was next in order, and to the surprise of friends and foes alike, he made as pretty a single over short-stop's head as one could have wished to see, scoring Jarvis and advancing Taylor to second. Then came Abbot's turn, and this time he had his revenge for two successive strike-outs by making a long drive between left and center, good for two bases, and bringing Taylor and Nichols home. Fenton was in the lead, and the grandstand became a mass of blazing crimson. Such a batting streak, however, was too good to last. Crosby hit a pop fly to Prescott, and Eliot struck out. Yet Fenton was well content. Three to two; and only two innings and a half to play.

Clinton's half of the seventh resulted in no score; and in the eighth both sides retired in order, Prescott and Nichols again on their mettle, and pitching as if their very lives depended on the outcome of the game. In the ninth Fenton made a splendid effort to increase their lead. With two out, and with men on second and third, Crosby hit a liner that looked good enough to score both men, and then Bates, the Clinton short-stop, pulled off the star play of the game, leaping high into the air, and getting his right hand on the ball just at the one possible moment--a clean, sensational catch that set the followers of both schools cheering, and stopped the Fenton scoring where it stood.

Then came the last of the ninth. The inning opened well for Fenton. Prescott hit a long fly to center field, which Irwin captured without difficulty. Bates bunted, and aided by his fleetness of foot, beat the ball to first. Crawford struck out. The game was almost won, and then came one of those sudden plays, that in a flash changes a defeat into a victory. Davenport swung on the first ball pitched, met it fair and square, with a crack that sounded like a rifle shot, and lifted it, as if on wings, clear over the left field fence. Red and black had its turn; flags waved; throats grew hoarse with cheering; Bates jogged home, and Davenport made the circuit of the bases at sprinting speed, while the crowd poured out on the field and bore him away on their shoulders in triumph. The game was ended--four to three--and Clinton was even with Hopevale for the cup. It was a silent procession of Fenton followers who walked down from the field, to take the train for home.

An hour later Dick entered Putnam's room, to find his classmate stretched, resting, on the bed. He looked up eagerly. "Well?" he queried.

Dick shook his head. "They licked us," he answered, "but there's no kick coming. It was a dandy game. I never want to see a better one. It looked as if we had it--" and he went over the whole story for Putnam's benefit, detailing every play, as it had occurred. "And so they licked us," he concluded, "and now, Jim, it seems to be most everlastingly up to you."

Putnam rose and began to pace up and down the room. "That's about the size of it," he answered, "and, thank goodness, we've got no hard luck stories to tell. We're in good shape--every one of us--and right on edge, too. If we're licked, it's because they've got better crews. But, by golly," he added, "they've got to go some, Dick. I don't care if I row the whole crew out, and we don't come to for a week, but we'll do our darndest, anyway. It's make or break, now."

Dick nodded. "Yes, it's win or nothing," he said; "but I'm glad of one thing. I guess Clinton's got a better crew than Hopevale, and if we can't win, then the cup goes to Clinton. And our old friend, Dave, can win all the Pentathlons he likes; it won't do him any good then. But we won't back down till we have to. You may lick 'em, after all."

Putnam squared his shoulders. "Dick," he said solemnly, "you watch us in the last half-mile, and if you can come to me afterward, and tell me that I didn't hit things up to the last notch, then you can hold my head under water till I drown. If I don't do my level best, and then some, I'm a Dutchman."

Dick laughed. "I'll watch you, all right," he answered, "but not to criticize; only to yell for all I'm worth, whether you're ahead or behind. We're with you, Jim, win or lose. The crowd of us have hired a launch, so if our moral support is going to help you any, on your way down the river, why you'll know you've got it."