Three more innings dragged by without a score for either team. Then, Captain Nixon got his men together and encouraged them with a few, quick words. Aroused to the fight, the Journal team battled on. Lefty was still pitching splendidly, while the Star pitcher seemed to be weakening under the strain. Even so, the Star team managed two runs. Two more scoreless innings followed.
During the first half of the ninth, the Star team fought harder than ever. But the Journal team was fighting, too. No score was made.
The Journal team was at bat again. The Star pitcher’s balls were going a bit wild. The first batter was struck by the ball and got a base. The second made a base on balls. Then Mack managed a bunt which let the runners on first and second each capture a base. All three bases were full when Lefty came to the bat.
Perhaps the Star team had forgotten that Lefty batted the balls left-handed. Anyway, he knocked it straight down the third baseline and fooled the Journal’s rivals, for their fielders were not on duty.
“Do a ‘Babe Ruth,’ Lefty!” yelled the newsboys as Lefty started toward first like a flash. There was no doubt but that all three men would come home safe, making the score four to three. The newsboys started running to the field. The Journal had won!
The side lines, under Miss Betty’s guidance, burst into the strains of “The Wearing of the Gray.” Every one was pounding Lefty on the back. Joan suddenly felt a warm glow in her heart, as though this victory meant that always would the Journal win over their rivals, in scoops and in the coming elections. She couldn’t help but feel her paper was always right!
Mr. Johnson, who had been standing on the side lines with the other owners of the paper, sought her out. He inquired solicitously after the mystery, and she had to admit they had no new clews. He had to hurry off to Cincinnati, he explained, and would not be able to stay for the supper, but he had enjoyed the game. Joan wondered whether he were proud now that Tim was on the staff, for Tim had been a splendid shortstop.
“Now for a swim!” That was every one’s thought after the game. In one corner of Cliff Woods was a lovely, round lake, with bathhouses and rafts. Here, the hot, dusty members of the Journal family enjoyed a splash.
As Joan emerged from the bathhouse, her wet suit a limp roll under her arm, her sunburned neck scratchy against her green linen dress, she found Chub waiting for her. Together, like two hungry bears, they approached the pavilion but were shooed away by a bevy of printers’ wives, the refreshment committee, who were surveying the long tables they had set up under the trees. The caterers’ wagons had come and gone. “Not quite ready yet,” the committee warned.
“Let’s go put that rock on the Picnic Pillar,” Chub suggested. “It might be too dark if we wait till after supper.”