“Well, I’ll be blowed!” ejaculated Dave. “The old miser! Going to do us out of our mascot for a paltry five or six dollars! What’s it cost to get down there and back, Hal?”
“Five—something. You can’t blame Bert much, though. We haven’t begun to make expenses this spring, and Bert’s the guy that’s got to make the alibis. Still, it wouldn’t hurt much to loosen up on a fiver.”
“I’ll say it wouldn’t,” declared Joe. “Look here, you know, you chaps, we’ve got to have Ginger! Gee, we’d get licked as sure as shooting without our mascot! Let’s dig!”
“Keep your hands out of your pockets, you guys,” directed Babe. “Ginger and I are pals, and I look after his finances. You be at the train promptly at nine-eighteen, son, and bring your rabbit’s foot along. Something tells me we’re going to need it.”
“I ain’t got any rabbit’s foot,” muttered Ginger, flushed, joyous, embarrassed, “but I—I got a lucky dime.”
“Bring it, kid, bring it!” begged Dave.
The league grounds in the city were neutral territory, without a doubt; and they were also very nearly deserted territory when the game started the next day. There was a small and devoted clump of Holman’s supporters back of third base and a scarcely larger company of Munson cohorts back of first. And there were some six hundred representatives of the general public scattered hither and yon about the rambling stands. It was not an inspiring scene. There was no band, there was but little cheering, there were few pennants. The general public munched peanuts and, still neutral, lolled in its seat and yawned throughout four dismal innings. It seemed that the teams were as depressed and indifferent as the bulk of the spectators. The afternoon was scorchingly, breathlessly hot, and to move from bench to plate started perspiration from every pore.
On the toss-up Holman’s had won the slight advantage of last innings, and so Munson went to bat first. Dave, starting for the Light Green, held the enemy hitless until the second and scoreless until the fourth. He didn’t have much trouble doing it, either, for Munson was listless and without ambition. For the Blue-and-Gold, Nelson, a left-hander also, went to the mound. Cross, Munson’s best twirler, had worked in both previous games, whereas Dave had not worked since Wednesday, and some advantage was believed to accrue to Holman’s from those circumstances. And yet, if Munson failed to hit Dave, so Holman’s as lamentably failed to punish the Blue-and-Gold’s substitute twirler. Nelson traveled scathless to the last of the fourth, but one pass and a scratch hit being scored against him. It was that fourth inning that captured the somnolent gaze of the spectators and interrupted the steady crunching of peanuts.
Munson’s first man up fanned, but the next ambitiously reached for a wide one of Dave’s, got it on the end of his bat and sent it arching into right field, four inches inside the foul line and out of reach of either Tom or Mac. Encouraged, the next batsman hit straight down the second base alley, and suddenly there were men on first and third and but one out! The neutrals in the stands began to take sides, and, naturally, rooted for the team that had started going and was promising to give them something for their money. The old ball park woke up from its slumbers and comparative animation reigned. Also, there was much noise from the Munson section and the Munson coachers and the Munson bench. Dave cinched his belt a notch and woke up, too. But the next batsman was a good waiter and nothing Dave pitched suited the umpire behind the plate. Most unexpectedly, as things happen in baseball, the three bases were occupied! Moreover, the earnest-faced chap now facing Dave was Munson’s clean-up man!