Marty nodded.
“Who?”
“Me.”
Bob stared in surprise, but Marty looked back without flinching. “I can play, Bob; not like you, of course, but pretty well. And, besides, there ain’t no one else, is there? Give me a show, will yer?”
Bob’s surprise had given place to deep thought. “Why not?” he asked himself. Of course Marty could play ball; what Summerville boy couldn’t, to some extent? And, besides, as Marty said, there was no one else. Bob had seen Marty play a little while the nine was practising, and, so far as he knew, Marty was a better player than any of the Summerville boys who had come with the nine and now sat on the grand stand. The other alternative did not appeal to him: his pride revolted at begging a player from the rival club. He turned and strode to the bench, and Marty eagerly watched him conferring with the others. In a moment he turned and nodded.
A ripple of laughter and ironic applause crept over the stands as Marty, attired in his blue shirt and unshapen trousers, trotted out to his position in left field. The boy heard it, but didn’t care. His nerves were tingling with excitement. It was the proudest moment of his short life. He was playing with the Summerville Baseball Club! And deep down in his heart Marty Brown pledged his last breath to the struggle for victory.
Vulcan started in on their last inning with a determination to add more runs to their score. The first man at bat reached first base on a safe hit to mid-field. The second, Vulcan’s center-fielder and a poor batsman, struck out ingloriously. When the next man strode to the plate, Bob motioned the fielders to spread out. Marty had scarcely run back a half dozen yards when the sharp sound of ball on bat broke upon the air, and high up against the blue sky soared the little globe, sailing toward left field. Marty’s heart was in his mouth, and for the moment he wished himself back by the bench, with no greater duty than the care of the bats. It was one thing to play ball in a vacant lot with boys of his own age, and another to display his powers in a big game, with half a thousand excited persons watching him. At first base the runner was poised ready to leap away as soon as the ball fell into the fielder’s hands—or to the ground! The latter possibility brought a haze before Marty’s eyes, and for an instant he saw at least a dozen balls coming toward him; he wondered, in a chill of terror, which was the real one! Then the mist faded, he stepped back and to the right three paces, telling himself doggedly that he had to catch it, put up his hands——
A shout of applause arose from the stands, and the ball was darting back over the field to second base. Marty, with a swelling heart, put his hands in his trousers pockets and whistled to prove his indifference to applause.
The batsman was out, but the first runner stood safely on third base. And then, with two men gone, Vulcan set bravely to work and filled the remaining bases. A safe hit meant two more runs added to Vulcan’s score. The fielders, in obedience to Bob’s command, crept in. The grand stand and the bleachers were noisy with the cheers of the spectators. Warner glanced around from base to base, slowly settled himself into position, and clutched the ball. The noise was deafening, but his nerves were again steady, and he only smiled carelessly at the efforts of the coaches to rattle him. His arms shot up, and a straight delivery sent the sphere waist high over the plate.
“Strike!” crooned the umpire. Applause from the Summerville deputation was drowned in renewed shouts and gibes from the rest of the audience. Warner received the ball, and again, very deliberately, settled his toe into the depression in the trampled earth. Up shot his arms again, again he lunged forward, and again the umpire called: