Joe timed it perfectly. There was a terrific crash as the bat met the ball, and the next instant Joe had dropped the bat and was running to first like a deer.
[CHAPTER III]
THROWN AWAY
On went the ball almost on a dead line to center, but rising as it went as though it were endowed with wings. On and still on, as though it would never stop. The centerfielder had cast one look at it, and then he turned and ran toward the distant bleachers in the back of the field. He took another look over his shoulder and then threw up his hands in a gesture of despair.
The ball cleared the bleacher rail, still going strong, and finally came to rest in the top row, where it was hastily gobbled up and concealed by an enthusiastic bleacherite, anxious to retain a memento of one of the longest hits ever made on the Chicago grounds.
Joe rounded first, going like a railroad train, but as he saw where the ball was going he moderated his speed in order to conserve his wind and just jogged around the bases until he reached the plate, where Barrett had preceded him.
Again and again he was forced to doff his cap in response to the shouts of the crowd, who had forgotten all partisanship for the moment in the excitement of that mighty homer. And his teammates mauled and pounded him until he laughingly made them desist, and made his way to the bench, where McRae and Robbie were beaming.
“I’ve been thirty years in baseball, Joe,” said McRae, “and I’ve seen lots of home runs. But if any one of them was finer than that whale of a hit, I’ve forgotten it.”
“If it hadn’t been for the bleachers in the way, the ball would be going yet,” grinned Robbie. “That swat will break Axander’s heart.”