But Hanlon, if he wasn’t the equal of the deposed Miller, was on his mettle. The batter had two strikes called on him, and then struck at a deceptive drop. The ball thumped into the hands of Morton, the “top-of-the-basket peacherina.”
“Striker’s out,” droned the little man in black.
Then came a long hit over short-stop’s head and the batsman reached first without hurrying. A moment later he had stolen second. The next man sent him to third, but was put out himself at first.
“Gee, a hit will bring him in, won’t it?” asked the boy. “But there’s two out. Maybe——”
The man at bat had found a high ball and had sent it whizzing down the base-line, eight feet or more in the air. The man on third was speeding home, the runner racing for first. The Hero threw his arms over his head and jumped lightly off his toes. The next instant he was rolling head over heels, but one hand was held triumphantly aloft and in it was the ball.
“He’s out!” called the umpire.
The panting, weary crimson-legged players trotted in amid a salvo of applause. Mr. Robinson was beaming proudly, delightedly across at the Hero. The boy was shouting absurdly and beating the planks with his heels.
“Gee, if they can only make two runs they’ll have ’em beaten!” he cried, excitedly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Robinson; “do you think they can?”
“I dunno. Maybe they can. Say, didn’t I tell you that ‘Rob’ was a corker? Did you see that catch? That wasn’t anything for him; I’ve seen him do better stunts than that; that was just ordinary, that was!”