Marty threw himself desperately forward; there was a cloud of brown dust at the plate, a thug as the ball met the catcher’s gloves. The little man in the alpaca coat turned away with a grin, and picked up his mask again.
“Safe, here!”
The score was 13 to 12 in Summerville’s favor; Marty’s home run had saved the day!
In another minute or two it was all over. Sleeper had popped a high fly into the hands of the discomfited center-fielder, and the crowds swarmed inward over the diamond.
It was a tired, hungry, but joyous little group that journeyed back to Summerville through the soft, mellow summer twilight. Marty and the leather bat-case occupied a whole seat to themselves. Marty’s freckled face was beaming with happiness and pride, his heart sang a pæan of triumph in time to the clickety-click of the car-wheels, and in one hand, tightly clenched, nestled a ten-dollar gold piece.
It was his share of the hundred-dollar purse the nine had won, Bob had explained, and it had been voted to him unanimously. And next spring he was to join the team as substitute! And Marty, doubting the trustiness of his pockets, held the shining prize firmly in his fist and grinned happily over the praise and thanks of his companions.
“It wasn’t nothin’, that home run; any feller could have done that!” And, besides, he explained, he had known all along that they were going to win. “Why,—don’t you see?—the other fellers didn’t have no mascot!”