The man thus adjured leaned back, and as Winters delivered a slow, easy ball he swung viciously and sent a smoking grounder straight for the pitcher’s box. The ball passed Winters before he had time to stoop for it, but White, the shortstop, made a pretty pick-up, and slammed the ball to Dick at first. The ball arrived a second too late to put the runner out, however, and in the meantime the first man had reached third. Now was a crucial moment, and everything depended on the pitcher. All eyes were fastened on him, but from something in his attitude Reddy knew that he was on the verge of a breakdown. Nor was he mistaken in this, for out of the next five balls Winters pitched, only one strike was called. The rest were balls, and the umpire motioned to the batter to take first base. Of course this advanced the man on first to second base, thus leaving all the bases full and none out.
As Winters was winding up preparatory to delivering one of his erstwhile famous drops, Reddy motioned to Bert, and in a second the latter was up and had shed his sweater. He trotted over to where Reddy was standing, and said, “You wanted me, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Reddy, in a tense voice; “get Armstrong there”—motioning toward the substitute catcher—“and warm up as quickly as you can. Take it easy, though!” he commanded; “don’t start in too hard! You might throw your arm out on the first few balls. Just limber up gradually.”
“All right, sir,” replied Bert, and called to Armstrong.
In the meantime Winters had pitched two wild balls, and the visiting rooters were yelling like maniacs. The third ball was an easy inshoot, and the batter, making a nice calculation, landed it fair and square. It flew over into left field, between the pitcher’s box and third base, and before it could be returned to the waiting catcher two runners had crossed the plate. This made the score three to none in favor of the visitors, with two men on base and none out. Matters looked hopeless indeed for the home team, and one of the spectators groaned, “It’s all over now but the shouting, fellows. Winters is up higher than a kite, and we’ve got nobody to put in his place. This game will just be a slaughter from now on.”
“How about young Wilson?” asked his friend. “I heard the other day that he had showed up pretty well in practice. It looks now as though Reddy meant to put him in the box. See, he’s warming up over there right now.”
“Ye gods and little fishes!” lamented the other. “Now we are cooked, for fair. It was bad enough with Winters pitching, but now when they put that greenhorn Freshie in, we’ll just be a laughing stock, that’s all. Why doesn’t the band play the funeral march?”
“Aw, wait and see,” said the other. “I don’t suppose we’ve got the ghost of a show, but Dick Trent was telling me of some pretty good stunts this boy Wilson has pulled off before this. He was telling me about a race in which Wilson drove a car across the tape a winner after a dickens of a grilling race. Any fellow that’s got nerve enough to drive a racing auto ought to be able to hold his own at baseball or anything else. You just sit tight and don’t groan so much, and he may show us something yet.”
“Forget it, Bill, forget it,” returned the other. “They’ve got our team running, and they’ll keep it running, take my word for it.”
“That’s right,” agreed another, “we might as well go home now as to wait for the slaughter. This game is over, right now.”