[CHAPTER XVIII]
THE DECIDING GAME
That was Thursday. The deciding game was to be played in the city on Saturday. The Holman’s team returned to the well-nigh empty campus and settled down for the wait. Gus didn’t make the mistake of working them hard on Friday. There was a little batting and a little throwing and a long talk under the shade of the stand; and, of course, the pitchers worked their sweaters off; but there was nothing strenuous that day. One just sat around and waited—and hoped.
Late that Friday afternoon Ginger was an unobtrusive unit in a group of five who lolled on the campus sward where a big elm cast an oasis of shade in a sun-smitten Sahara. It was very hot and very still, and the deserted dormitories seemed to have dropped asleep for the summer. Conversation had been desultory, but all of the morrow’s game. Now Captain Hal said smilingly, but with an undertone of earnestness: “Babe, it’s too bad you didn’t save that homer for to-morrow.”
“There’s another where that came from,” replied Babe.
“Not a chance,” said Dave. “They’ll walk you every time you come up.”
“I don’t believe,” answered Babe. “You see, I haven’t been hitting much, and they’ll think that was just an accident.”
“Brainy guys, then,” murmured Dave, pillowing his head more comfortably on one of Babe’s ample legs.