But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted a sacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner.
Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like a shot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third.
Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back and forth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two balls in his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at an outshoot.
The result—he swung through empty air—appeared to unnerve him. He struck again at the next ball, and again missed.
But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher.
Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised to go on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop the ball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it.
Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons and his legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line.
Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about him were cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from the plate he launched himself through space, with arms outstretched. The dust was in his eyes and nostrils.
He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of the ball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swinging arm, and——
"Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire.