Lanky Wallace to the bat. Lanky had not distinguished himself overly much thus far during the day.
“He’s due for a hit, fellows, mark me!” cried one enthusiast, and Lanky heard, for he grinned and nodded, as if he felt it in his bones.
Coddling was wabbling by now. He had weakened in the great strain. Somehow he believed in his soul that Lanky had it in for him, and actually began to toss wide ones, having less fear of the next two batters. But Lanky was indignant, and did not mean to be cheated of his prey. If the mountain refused to come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain.
“Step out and take one, Lanky, old boy!”
“Don’t you dare let him pass you! He’s tricky, all right, and he knows you can swat it! Oblige us, Lanky, please!”
Lanky evidently could not find it in his heart to refuse such pleading. And he “swatted it” so very hard that Smith, Jr., had to run like a deer to keep the long-legged first baseman from making a clean sweep of the bases.
The score tied, and a man on third, with only one out!
Imagine the racket that ensued. Men began to shake hands with each other in their intense emotional excitement, that is, men who owned to a partiality for Columbia. As for the good people of Bellport, they cheered in a faint way, feeling the strain, but not exactly liking the way things were going against them.
“Now, Buster, you know! Pick out a good one, and send it over the fence!”
Buster wanted to do just that. It would have pleased him immensely to have been the one to bat in the run needed to lead the score, and possibly win the game.