"Go to it, Dickson—-kill the ball!" roared the visiting fans.
"Just a little two-bagger—-that's all!"
Dick felt something fluttering inside. In himself he felt the whole Gridley honor and fame revolving during that moment. Then he resolutely choked down the feeling. The umpire was signaling impatiently for him to deliver.
Dick essayed a jump ball. With a broadening grin Dickson of Wayland reached for it vigorously. He struck it, but feebly. Another of those short-winded, high-arched pops went up in air.
There was no hope or chance for Hazelton to get to the spot in time—-and Wayland's man away from third was steaming in while Purcell made the home plate at a bound.
Dick raced—-raced for all he was worth, though his heart felt as if steam had shut down.
Across the grass raced Prescott, as though he believed he could make history in fifths of seconds.
In his speed he went too far. The ball was due to come down behind him.
There was no time to think. Running at full speed as he was, Pitcher Dick rose in the air. It looked like an incredible leap—-but he made it. His hands pulled the slow-moving popball down out of the air.
Barely did Dick's feet touch the ground when he simply reached over and dropped the ball at Purcell.
The captain of the Gridley nine dropped to one knee, hands low, but he took the leather in—-took it just the bare part of a second before the Waylander from third got there.