Pete smiled cheerfully. He thought the next ball looked good, and swung at it, but he had been fooled by a neat trick.
“Strike one!” said the umpire, and a breathless silence followed.
“Two more like that and we’ve got ’em!” called the catcher to Hedden. “You can do it.”
The pitcher nodded. He threw the swiftest ball of which he was capable. It came almost before Pete was ready for it, but with the quickness of light he swung on it.
Oh what a “Ping!” followed, and he knew that he had made good. Once more, amid the frenzied howls of the crowd, the ball sailed outward and upward.
“Bill, Oh Bill! Where are you? Come in! Come in!” pleaded scores to him. But the pitcher did not need these entreaties. On he came running as he had never run before. The catcher, to disconcert him, stood as though to catch the ball. Bill dared not look around to make sure that it had not been caught and thrown home. Brower was right in his path.
“Slide!” some one called to him, and for the second time that day Bill dropped and shot forward on the ground. His hand touched the plate, and he knew that he was safe, for he had not heard the thud of the ball in the catcher’s mitt. Then, he felt some heavy body fall on him, and for the moment the breath was knocked from him, and he lost consciousness. He had knocked the catcher’s feet from under him, and toppled that player in the dust.
Cap ran to pick up his brother.
“Hurt?” he cried anxiously. “Oh Bill, you did it! We win.”
“No—n-not much hurt!” gasped Bill. “Just—just a little—little short—of wind—that’s all.”