“One!” muttered Tompkins, under his breath. “Two more, now–just two more!”
The next was a ball, and Conners let it pass. Then came a slow one delivered with a swing and snap that fooled the batter into striking before it was well within his reach. As he regained his balance he scowled slightly and shook his head. The grin still stretched his lips, but it had turned into a grimace.
Dale’s heart began to pound. Over and over again he was saying to himself: “One more! Only one more! I must get him–I’ve got to!”
Silence had fallen on the field. The batter’s team-mates had left off their gibing. It seemed as if every fellow gathered about the edges of the diamond was holding his breath.
Dale’s right hand drew back slowly, and for an instant he cuddled the ball under his chin. Then, like a flash, his arm shot forward and a gray shadow whizzed through the air.
The ball was high–too high, many a breathless onlooker thought at first. But suddenly it flashed downward across Conner’s shoulders. Too late the batter saw it drop and brought his bat around. There was a swish, a thud–and the umpire’s voice was drowned in the shrill yell of relaxing tension that split the throats of the victorious team as they made a rush for Tompkins, standing in the middle of the diamond.
Sanson and Bob Gibson reached him first, but the others were not far behind. Thumping, pounding, poking him in the ribs and executing around him an impromptu war-dance, they swept Dale toward the bench, jabbering excitedly the while. In a happy sort of daze the boy heard the hearty congratulations of Mr. Curtis. Then, when the throng had spread out a little, he suddenly found himself face to face with Ranleigh Phelps.
For a second there was an embarrassed silence; then the blond chap put out his hand.
“You did mighty well, Tompkins,” he said, with a touch of constraint in his manner. “I wish–” He paused an instant, and a faint color crept into his face. “I’d just like you to know,” he went on rapidly, “that I haven’t kept you out of the box all season because–because of–wanting to take all the pitching myself. I–I–didn’t think you’d make good. I was wrong, of course. I–I’m sorry it’s too late to–prove it to you.”
That was all. Without waiting for a reply, he turned away. But Dale’s face glowed. Somehow those brief words from Ranleigh meant more to him than the exuberant congratulations of all the others.