CAPTAIN CHUB
[CHAPTER I]
THE STOLEN RUN
“That settles that,” groaned the captain of the Crimson nine as the long fly settled gracefully into the hands of the Blue’s left-fielder. The runner who, at the sound of bat meeting ball, had shot away from second base, slowed his pace and dropped his head disconsolately as he left the path to the plate and turned toward the bench.
“Come on, fellows,” said the captain cheerfully. “We’ve got to hold ’em tight. Not a man sees first, Tom; don’t lose ’em.”
Pritchett, the Crimson pitcher, nodded silently as he drew on his glove and walked across to the box. He didn’t mean to lose them. So far, at the beginning of the ninth inning, it was anybody’s game. The score was 3 to 3. Pritchett had pitched a grand game: had eight strike-outs to his credit, had given but one base on balls, and had been hit but three times for a total of four bases. For five innings, for the scoring on both sides had been done in the first part of the game, he had held the Blue well in hand, and he didn’t mean to lose control of the situation now. The cheering from the stands occupied by the supporters of the Crimson team, which had died away as the unlucky hit to left-fielder had retired the side, began again, and continued until the first of the blue-stockinged batsmen stepped to the plate.
It was the end of the year, the final game and the deciding one. The stands, which started far beyond third base and continued around behind first, were filled with a gaily-hued throng, every member of which claimed allegiance to Crimson or Blue. Fully eight thousand persons were awaiting with fast-beating hearts the outcome of this last inning. The June sun shone hotly down, and the little breeze which came across the green field from the direction of the glinting river did little to mitigate the intolerable heat. Score-cards waved in front of red, perspiring faces, straw hats did like duty, and pocket-handkerchiefs were tucked inside wilting collars.
Half-way up the cheering section sat a little group of freshmen, hot and excited, hoarse and heroic. At every fresh demand from the cheerleader they strained their tired lungs to new excesses of sound. Now, panting and laughing, they fell against each other in simulated exhaustion.