They saw Buster glancing over his shoulder once or twice as he ran. It was a perfect wonder that he did not stumble and fall flat, for on more than one former occasion that was what had happened to the apparently clumsy fielder.
But Frank had high hopes. He knew that Buster could rise to an emergency, and really accomplish the impossible—for such stockily built fellows of his class. He held his breath as the fielder turned squarely around and threw up one of his hands. Hough was already shooting down toward second in wild haste. If Buster made a mess of it the hit was likely to count a home run, for it had enough steam behind it to carry far afield.
“He did it, Buster did it!” cried dozens of voices, as though the speakers had considerable difficulty in believing their own eyes.
Then a fierce wave of sound went surging over the field. It was a fine play that appealed to the sportsmanlike spirit of an American crowd, so that even the warmest adherents of Bellport High joined in the tremendous cheer that awoke the echoes in the hills near by.
And Hough walked in from second, shaking his head, and looking back toward the plump fielder as though he felt that he had been robbed.
Two out! It was a splendid beginning, and nerved Frank to keep up the good work. If the balance of the boys only did their duty as Buster had shown how, the game would turn out to be a one-sided affair at best.
But Frank knew the vagaries that attach to baseball, which serve to give it its greatest charm. No game is won until the last man is put out. A rally can cause a winning team to go all to pieces, so that their opponents fairly “shoot holes through their ranks.”
“Banghardt next!”
“He’s the boy who can do it, else why his name?”
“Watch him knock the cover off the ball! See the fielders move out. Oh! Allen knows this chap. He’s the swift bunch, all right!”