"Over left-fielder's head," Bonfire exulted, trained ears and eyes determining the end of that parabola to be marked by the soaring ball, half liner, half fly. "Two-bagger, sure; maybe three."
He rounded first at full speed. Ahead of him somewhere, Roundy was tearing around the bases. A coacher waved excited arms to Bonfire. "Go on!" he shrieked. "Keep going!"
Just before his leg hit the sack at second, Bonfire stole a glance toward left field. The ball was rolling along the ground now, far beyond a youth who was frantically chasing after it. Bonfire swept on to third.
Roundy scored. Bunny, coaching off third, was threshing his arms wildly toward home, as if he were intent upon sweeping the runner over the plate. "Go on, Bonfire!" he yelled. "You can make it!"
Legs pounding like flying piston rods, Bonfire began the last lap of his race against the ball. For half the distance between third and home, he ran without hearing a sound from the Belden fans. The silence spurred him on. But suddenly they waked into rustling hope. The ball was coming in. They murmured. They rumbled. They roared. They thundered like madmen. High above the din, Bonfire caught Specs' excited treble.
"Slide!" the voice vibrated. "Slide!"
Bonfire threw himself forward in a magnificent headlong dive. His hand ploughed toward the plate. Pebbles scratched his palm. Dust swirled up in clouds. And then, as his groping fingers found the cool rubber, he heard a thud above him, and the catcher clamped the ball hard on his protruding arm.
Bonfire leaped to his feet. The play had been close, very close. For an instant, he could see nothing but a cloud of dust. But as it cleared, his eyes found the umpire.
The man was leaning forward, arms flung wide, palms down. And he was saying, "Runner is safe!"