It was the ending of the seventh inning. The game was being played in Bellport, since they had been fortunate enough to win the toss. That was the first sign of luck in their favor. Besides, everybody knew that Frank Allen was still somewhat handicapped by his accident, though he had the grit to continue in the box as long as Captain Seymour wished.
At one time the score had been seven to three, so that as the game progressed it began to seem that the Columbia High boys were climbing. They had had their little juggle, in which every man nearly did something foolish, and runs piled in; after which they had settled down to serious business.
“They’re creeping up, boys, creeping up!” shouted Herman, encouragingly.
“Sure they are, and if the game only lasts ten hours more it looks like Columbia might come in neck and neck with Bellport,” jeered one of the mill workers.
Watkins Gould was about, and evidently making wagers, although he did not dare show the color of his money. There was more or less talk about finding some means of keeping him out, since he had been known to try and influence a player to do some underhand work and throw a game.
The eighth inning began.
Seymour had been encouraging his men to make a break and do some consecutive batting that would count.
“We only need two runs to tie, three to win, fellows. Somebody jump on first, and then the rest of us get busy with our little bats!” he was saying, as his men came hustling in from the field to the bench.
“Batter up!” called the umpire.
“That means me,” sang out Ben Allison, as he stepped forward to the plate.