He could not understand the stunned silence that followed. Specs' jaw dropped in consternation. One of the other fellows coughed unnaturally. In the eyes of the two or three Belden players within hearing grew a queer light of grudging admiration. With an effort, the umpire found his voice.
"Runner is out at third," he ruled.
So, after all, the two runs did not count. Technically, Bunny's long hit could be scored as only a two-bagger, although he had circled the bases before the ball could be relayed home. Moreover, the inning was over.
The seventh began badly. Perhaps Bunny was still winded; perhaps the disappointment kept him from pitching his best. Whatever the reason, the first two batters hit safely, the third advanced them with a neat sacrifice bunt, and only Jump's bare-handed catch of a liner prevented immediate scoring. Then, in his eagerness to keep the ball out of the groove, Bunny walked another, filling the bases, with two out.
In right field, Prissler stooped nervously and plucked a blade of grass. Without quite understanding why, he felt he was indirectly to blame for the threatening situation. It dated back to that play at third, upon which the umpire had reversed his decision.
"But I was out fairly," Prissler told himself wonderingly, kicking at a tuft of roots. "I couldn't say anything else, could I?"
He looked up just in time to see the Belden batter swing viciously against a pitched ball. It was a low fly, and it lifted straight toward right field.
In his first flurry of indecision, Prissler stood stock-still, thereby proving himself a poor fielder. Any expert player would have been upon his toes and away before the crash of meeting bat and ball had dwindled to an echo; for it was obvious that the fly must fall in short right field, just beyond reach of the second baseman.
But Prissler's tardy recognition of this fact was only momentary. In another instant, he was in action, racing with all his might toward the falling ball, and noting, out of the corner of his eye, that the Belden runners were circling the bases like some human merry-go-round. If he missed the catch, at least three runs would score.
But it looked impossible. The ball was falling like a plummet, well out of reach of his extended hands. He pumped his legs desperately. Bunny might have made it in time, or Specs, or some of those other fellows who had the knack of sprinting. He was afraid he couldn't.