This and other advice was shouted at him. He gave a quick glance around, and decided that he would risk it by going on to the last bag. It was a narrow chance, almost too narrow, and Bill had to slide so far that his uniform took on a new shade, and his mouth and eyes were filled with dust and gravel, for the ball whizzed into the hands of the eager baseman.
“Safe!” decided the umpire after a breathless run to third that he might see the outcome.
The score was now tied!
There was a howl of disgust from the Tuckerton crowd but the decision stood, and there was wild rejoicing on the part of the Westfield throng.
“Now then, Pete, it’s up to you,” said the coach solemnly as the third member of the Smith boys trio stepped to the bat. “If you don’t bring Bill in at least, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I’ll do my best,” declared the doughty little shortstop. He was one of the best men who could have been up in an emergency of this kind, with two out, a man on third and the winning run still needed. For Pete was as cool as the proverbial cucumber.
He smiled in a tantalizing fashion at the Tuckerton pitcher, who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown because of the many epithets hurled at him, in an endeavor to “get his goat.” He had to watch Bill carefully, for that worthy was playing off as far as he dared, hoping to slip in with the needed winning run. The catcher, too, was fearful lest some ball get by him, and had told the pitcher to be on the alert to run in instantly in the event of a passed ball.
“Ball one!” howled the umpire, as Hedden threw.
“Oh wow! He’s going to walk you, Pete!” called Graydon.
“You’ve got a pass!” shouted Bob Chapin.