The next man up struck out and the excitement quieted down somewhat, only to be renewed with redoubled fervor a moment later, when Halley caught a low outcurve just below the waist and laced it into center for a clean double. Smart fielding kept the man on first from getting further than third, but that seemed good enough. Only one man was out and two were on bases, and one of their heaviest batters was coming up. Bert looked him over carefully and then sent him deliberately four wide balls. He planned to fill the bases and then make the next man hit into a double play, thus retiring the side.
It was good judgment and Ainslee noted it with approval. Many a time he had done the same thing himself in a pinch and “gotten away with it.”
As Bert wound up, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Halley was taking a long lead off second. Quick as lightning, he turned and shot the ball to White, who ran from short to cover the base. The throw was so true that he could easily have nailed Halley, as he frantically tried to get back. But although White had pluckily insisted on being allowed to play, his head was still spinning like a top from the recent collision, and a groan went up from the “Blue” supporters as the ball caromed off his glove and rolled out to center. The three men on bases fairly burned up the base lines as they galloped around the bags, and when Ames’ hurried return of the ball went over Hinsdale’s head to the grand stand, all the bases were cleared, and the score stood four to three in favor of the home team. It had all occurred so suddenly that the visitors were in a daze, and the home nine itself could hardly realize how quickly the tables had been turned.
For a moment rage took possession of Bert. What was the matter with the fellows anyway? Why were they playing like a bunch of “Rubes”? Did they expect him to win the game all by himself? Was the victory to be snatched away just as it was within sight? Were these jubilant, yelling rooters, dancing about and hugging each other, to send him and his comrades away, downcast and beaten? Were they to “laugh last” and therefore “best”? And the fellows hundreds of miles away, gathered at this moment around the bulletin board of the dear old college——
No! No! A thousand times, no! In a moment he was himself again—the same old Bert, cool, careful, self-reliant. He stooped down and pretended to tie his shoe lace, in order to give his comrades a moment to regain their self-possession. Then he straightened up and shot a beauty right over the plate. The batter, who had been ordered to wait and take advantage of Bert’s expected case of “rattles,” let it go by. Two perfect strikes followed and the batter was out. The next man up dribbled a roller to the box and Bert threw him out easily. The inning was over, and Bert had to take off his cap to the storm of cheers that came from the “Blue” supporters as he walked to the bench.
Ainslee scanned him carefully for any sign of collapse after this “baptism of fire.” Where were the fellow’s nerves? Did he have any? Bert met his glance with an easy smile, and the coach, reassured, heaved a sigh of relief. No “yellow streak” there, but clear grit through and through.
“It’s the good old fadeaway from now on, Wilson,” he said as he clapped him on the back, “usually I believe in letting them hit and remembering that you have eight men behind you to help you out. But just now there’s a little touch of panic among the boys, and while that would soon wear off, you only have two innings left. This game has got to be won in the pitcher’s box. Hold them down and we will bat out a victory yet.”
“All right,” answered Bert; “I’ve only used the fadeaway once or twice this game, and they’ve had no chance to size it up. I’ll mix it in with the others and try to keep them guessing.”
Drake and Dick made desperate attempts to overcome the one run advantage in their half of the eighth. Each cracked out a hot single, but the three that followed were unable to bring them home, despite the frantic adjurations of their friends to “kill the ball.”