“Right on the nose! Oh, what a poke!” cried Whistle-Breeches who rejoiced for Bill over what he himself could not do.
Away sailed the ball, well over the centre fielder’s head, away sped Bill legging it for first with all the speed of which he was capable.
“Run! Run! Run!”
“Come on in, Cap!”
“Oh what a poke!”
“Pretty! Pretty!”
The crowd on the stands was yelling and jumping up and down. Old men were tossing their hats into the air, clapping each other on the back, making friends with strangers, and telling each other that it reminded them of the time when they were boys.
Bill swung around second, as Cap fairly leaped over home plate, bringing in the tying run. The Tuckerton players were wild with chagrin. The game was being pulled out of the fire—snatched from them at the moment when they thought they saw a safe victory. The centre fielder nearly had the ball now, and Bill was heading for third base.
“Go on! Go on!”
“Home! Home!”