“Now, lively. Watch his arm! Come on, come on! Hi, hi, hi! Look out for passed balls! Now you’re off!”
“Strike two,” called the umpire.
Mr. Robinson thumped the boards with his cane.
Then there came a crack as the batsman found the ball, and the men on bases rushed home. But the arching sphere fell softly into the left-fielder’s hands, and the nines again changed places. Mr. Robinson and his acquaintance exchanged looks of disgust.
“Wasn’t that rotten?” asked the boy with the freckled face.
“Awful!” answered Mr. Robinson.
Nothing happened in either half of the eighth inning, but the suspense and excitement were intense, nevertheless. Princeton reached second once, but that was the end of her chances. Harvard got her first man to first, but the succeeding three struck out. The cheers were hoarse, incessant. The ushers waved hats and arms wildly. And Princeton went to bat for the first of the ninth.
“Now, then, fellows, get together!” Mr. Robinson recognized his son’s voice, cheerful, hopeful, inspiriting. The Hero was trotting to his place at first. “Ginger up, everybody, and shut them out!”
“All right, Cap!” “We’ve got them on the run, Cap!” “Lucky ninth, Rob!” The in-fielders were answering with the same cheerful assumption of confidence. To the right of Mr. Robinson a section of the stand was waving orange and black streamers and flags, and cheering joyously. The Princeton pitcher stepped to the plate.