He rounded second and kept on toward third. How he ran! The wind whistled in his ears. The stands were a blur of shouting figures who had risen to their feet and were yelling like maniacs.
He touched third and saw out of the corner of his eye that the right fielder had got the ball and was steadying himself for the throw. It was to be a race between him and the ball. Then he straightened himself out for home, and now indeed his feet had wings.
On and on he went like an arrow. But the ball was coming, too. He knew it by the way the catcher threw aside his mask and settled himself for the catch. He knew it by the frantic yells of his comrades urging him on.
Twenty feet from the bag he launched himself into the air and slid into the plate in a cloud of dust. At the same instant he heard the thud of the ball in the catcher’s glove. But the ball was a fraction of a second too late.
“Safe!” cried the umpire, and Bobby rose to his feet, panting but smiling, to have what little breath was left knocked out of him by the hugging and mauling of his exulting mates.
Shiner had preceded him to the plate. The next batter struck out, and the score was now 5 to 3 in favor of Rockledge.
And there it remained, for Bobby simply refused to be cheated out of the victory and fanned the Belden boys in a row as fast as they came to the plate.
Then when the last batsman had thrown down the stick in disgust, the rejoicing Rockledge crowds surged down over the field and despite Bobby’s laughing protestations hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him about the field, dancing and yelling until their throats were hoarse.
“You were the whole cheese, Bobby,” declared Fred with his usual lack of elegance of speech.
“You had the Indian sign on them,” chortled Pee Wee.