"Leg it, old man! Leg it!"
"A home run! A home run!"
"We'll beat 'em yet! Go on! Go on!"
But Lem needed not the hoarse cries to urge him on. He needed not the frantic cheers of his comrades in arms nor those who sat in the grandstands. No sooner had he felt the magic of that meeting between his bat and the ball, than he sprang forward like some stone from an ancient catapult, tossing the stick to one side. And how he did run!
The second baseman stood ready to relay the ball home, as soon as the frantic rightfielder should get it. But the horsehide had rolled into the deep grass. There was some delay in finding it, and by that time Lem was at second. As he rounded that the centrefielder got his fingers on the ball. Like a flash he threw.
"Come on! Come on!" screamed the Blue Hill captain, and Lem came.
He beat the ball to third base, and kept on. He heard the thud of the horsehide striking the mit of the third baseman, and thought all was lost, but he dared not turn to see. Then a groan—a groan of despair from the Kentfield stand—told him what had happened. The third baseman had muffed it. There was still a chance for the runner.
Lem's feet and legs scarce could carry him onward, but he forced them to. The shortstop was racing madly for the ball. He and Dick collided, and when the ball was finally recovered by the chagrined third baseman himself, Lem was so near home that it was a foregone conclusion that he would tally the tieing run.
And he did. The ball came with a "plunk" into the catcher's big mit, and then the umpire called out:
"Safe!"