In Yale's half of the inning, a single and an error put two men on bases with one out. But the necessary hits were not forthcoming, and although the men reached third and second, the side was retired before a runner crossed the plate.
Nip and tuck, the teams played for five innings with no runs scored on either side. Armstrong was pitching brilliant ball. No one in the stands and but few on the team itself, knew the price he was paying. Slow and fast he mixed them up, with an occasional curve which sent twinges of pain from finger tips to shoulder. In tight places, he steadied his team and was always the Captain, inspiring and resourceful.
Coach Quinton well knew what Frank was going through. "Can you stick it out?" he said, when the game was more than half over.
"I don't know. I'm pitching and praying at the same time," was the answer.
The break came in the sixth, and it was in Harvard's favor. With one out, Kingston, the big Harvard first baseman, hit a liner to the pitcher's box, which Frank partly blocked with his gloved hand. The ball bounded to the left and fell dead twenty feet behind him, and before the second baseman, who had come in with all possible speed, could field it, Kingston had crossed first base. The next man up singled over second. With two on, Captain Armstrong tightened up and struck out the following batter, while the stands roared their approval; but the next man hit a low liner to left field, which scored Kingston. Frank was pitching now slowly and deliberately. His arm was numb, but somehow he got over the third strike on the last man and saved more runs.
Yale fought hard to win the run back and got a man to third, but a stinging liner to short-stop was perfectly handled and the side was out. Nothing happened in the eighth for either side, and Harvard began the ninth, one run to the good, steady and confident.
Armstrong was pitching now on nerve alone. His arm, subjected to a hard strain through the preceding eight innings, was what the newspapers had called "glass," but the brain that directed it was cool and calculating. Fortunately for him, the first man fouled out to the third baseman on the second ball pitched, but the second batter caught one of the Yale pitcher's slow lobs and made a safe hit. The third bunted down the third base line and was also safe. It was now or never, and gathering up his fast waning forces, Frank struck out the next man, while the shooting pains in his arm brought the cold sweat out on his forehead.
Confidently the last Harvard batter faced him, swinging his bat. Frank tried a curve which went outside the plate. A foul followed, and then a strike. Twice he threw high to tease the batter, and then with all the vigor he had left, he snapped over a straight ball, close to the knees. The batter swiped desperately at it.
"You're out," came the sharp tones of the umpire; and as the batter threw his bat wickedly towards the bench, the Yale stands rose en masse and yelled their approval.
"We've got to win it now," commanded Captain Armstrong at the bench. "It's our last chance. I can't pitch another ball."