“He’s out!” The runner from third slid into the base in a cloud of yellow dust, his performance a wasted effort.
In the stand the little group of Holman’s rooters stood and yelled themselves red of face, and between the plate and the Holman’s bench a youth pushed a cap to the back of his very red head and spun ecstatically on one heel.
Ginger had kept his emotions sternly in check throughout eight and a half innings, presenting a cheerful, untroubled countenance to the world, performing his duties with all his accustomed masterly efficiency. But now relief demanded expression, and he spun on a worn heel and was inarticulately joyful. Then he was at Babe’s side, hand outstretched for mask and mitt, saying casually:
“Atta-boy, Babe! ’At’s holding ’em!”
Babe grinned as he unbuckled the strap of his protector. “Get a good grip on your lucky dime, Ginger, and root for the old bridge timber!” said Babe.
Ginger looked startled. Gee, Babe was right, though! Joe Kenton was up, and then came Mac, Bud, and Babe. Ginger hoped hard that the needed run wouldn’t depend on Babe, for Babe had faced the enemy three times and had failed on each occasion to hit. More than that, it was Cross who was now pitching, and only yesterday morning Babe had acknowledged that never yet, this year or any other, had Cross allowed him a bingle. For Cross knew Babe’s weakness and didn’t have to have the catcher tell him to keep them low and inside.
“Batter up!” called the umpire impatiently, and Joe, who had been listening with bent head to Coach Cousins’ instructions, straightened and walked to the plate very jauntily.
“You got one comin’ to you, Joe,” said Ginger, as he rescued the bat relinquished by the left fielder. “Bust it on the nose!”