They gave him water and he felt better, and then he looked out over the diamond. Pete had reached third, and was still running. Around the last bag he swung, but the right fielder far on amid the daisies had the ball now.
“Go back! Go back!” howled Graydon, for, though the game was won he wanted to pile up another run against Tuckerton if he could.
But Pete did not heed. The ball had been thrown, but the fielder had to run so far back for it, that he could not get it far enough in. There was just a chance for Pete to make a home run, and he took that chance.
The horsehide fell short of the second baseman, who ran to get it. By this time Pete was half way home, and running well.
“Come on! Come on!” pleaded hundreds to him, and Pete came.
“Slide!” cried the coach, and, as Bill had done, so did Pete, but with more cause.
On came the ball, thrown swiftly by the second baseman. Pete was hurtling forward through a cloud of dust, his hand eagerly stretched out to feel the plate. His fingers touched it, and a welcome thrill ran through him, just as he heard the thud of the ball in the catcher’s glove. Down came the horsehide on his shoulder with vicious force.
“How’s it?” excitedly yelled the catcher to the umpire.
There was a moment’s silence, and the players and crowd hardly breathed. It seemed as if the weight of kingdoms hung on the decision, and Pete lay there waiting.
“Safe!” decided the umpire, and yells of delight mingled with those of chagrin. Westfield had the game now by two runs and the pennant remained with them.