The latter, Summerville’s short-stop and a mere boy of seventeen, was only an ordinary batsman, and Marty looked to see him strike out. But instead, after waiting with admirable nerve while ball after ball shot by him, he tossed aside his stick and trotted to first base on balls, amid the howls of the visitors. Summerville’s first run for four innings was scored a moment later when Bob stole home on a passed ball.
Summerville’s star seemed once more in the ascendant. Howe was now sitting contentedly on second base. “Herb” Webster gripped his bat firmly and faced the pitcher. The latter, for the first time during the game, was rattled. Bob, standing back of third, coached Howe with an incessant roar:
“On your toes! Get off! Get off! Come on, now! Come on! He won’t throw! Come on, come on! That’s right! That’s the way! Now! Wh-o-o-a! Easy! Look out! Try it again, now!”
Baker received the ball back from second, and again faced the batsman. But he was worried, and proved it by his first delivery. The ball went far to the right of the catcher, and Howe reached third base without hurrying. When Baker again had the ball, he scowled angrily, made a feint of throwing to third, and, turning rapidly, pitched. The ball was a swift one and wild, and Webster drew back, then ducked. The next instant he was lying on the ground, and a cry of dismay arose. The sphere had hit him just under the ear. He lay there unconscious, his left hand still clutching his bat, his face white under its coat of tan. Willing hands quickly lifted him into the dressing-room, and a doctor hurried from the grand stand. Bob, who had helped carry him off the field, came out after a few minutes and went to the bench.
“He’s all right now,” he announced. “That is, he’s not dangerously hurt, you know. But he won’t be able to play again to-day. Doctor says he’d better go to the hotel, and we’ve sent for a carriage. I wish to goodness I knew where to find a fellow to take his place! Think of our coming here without a blessed substitute to our name! I wish I had Magee for a minute; if I wouldn’t show him a thing or two! Warner, you’d better take poor Webster’s place as runner; I’ll tell the umpire.”
In another moment the game had begun again, Warner having taken the place of the injured left-fielder at first base, and Sleeper having gone to bat. Vulcan’s pitcher was pale and his hands shook as he once more began his work; the injury to Webster had totally unnerved him. The immediate result was that Sleeper knocked a two-bagger that brought Howe home, placed Warner on third and himself on second; and the ultimate result was that five minutes later, when Oliver fouled out to Vulcan’s third-baseman, Sleeper and Wolcott had also scored, and the game stood 12 to 9.
Bob Ayer meanwhile had searched unsuccessfully for a player to take the injured Webster’s place, and had just concluded to apply to Vulcan’s captain for one of his substitutes, when he turned to find Marty at his side.
“Are yer lookin’ fer a feller to play left field?”
“Yes,” answered Bob, eagerly. “Do you know of any one?”