While that momentary dizziness lasted, something happened that caused the young pitcher to flush with humiliation. Sandwiched in between two strikes were called balls enough to send the new batsman to first, and again the bases were full. One more "bad break" of this kind and Wayland would receive the tie run as a present. And then one more—-it would be the High School pitcher handing the only lost game of the season as a gift to the visitors!
Dick braced himself supremely for the next man at bat.
"Strike one!"
It wasn't the batter's fault. A very imp had sat on the spitball that Prescott bowled in.
"Strike two!"
The batsman was sweating nervously, but he couldn't help it. Dick Prescott had fairly forced himself into the form of the first inning. But it couldn't last.
Gink! It was only a little crack at the ball, struck rather downward. A grounding ball struck the grit and rolled out toward right infield. There was no shortstop here. The instant that Prescott took in the direction he was on the run. There was no time to get there ahead of the rolling leather. It was Dick's left foot that stopped it, but in the same fraction of a second he bent and swooped it up—-wheeled.
Wayland's man from third base looked three fourths of the way in. Captain Purcell, half frantic, was doubled up at the home plate.
Into that throw Dick put all the steam he had left in. The leather gone from his hand, he waited. His heart seemed to stop.
To half the eyes that looked on, ball and runner seemed to reach the home plate at the same instant. The umpire, crouching, squinting, had the best view of all.