Cries filled the air, the bases emptied. The ball, smashed directly at Tom Haley, bounded out of his glove and rolled back toward the third base line. Tom, momentarily confused, sprang after it, scooped it up from almost under the feet of the speeding runner from third and, without a moment’s indecision, hurled it to Lanny. And [Lanny, dropping to his knees on the plate, got it a foot from the ground] just as the spiked shoes of the runner shot into him. Catcher and runner, blue stockings and purple, became confusedly mixed up for a moment, and then Clearfield, seeing the umpire’s arm swing backward over his shoulder, burst into triumph and flowed onto the field!
[“Lanny, dropping to his knees on the plate, got it a foot from the ground”]
CHAPTER XXIV
CLEARFIELD CONCEDES THE MEET
But Clearfield paid dearly for that victory.
Late Sunday afternoon four dejected youths sat in the library at Guy Felker’s house and waited for the report of Skeet Presser, who had just joined them. Skeet, having stuffed his cloth cap into his pocket, seated himself and smiled about him, but the smile was a dispirited effort.
“Did you see him?” asked Guy.
“Yes, I saw him. Just came from there. He’s in bad shape, Cap. He’s got two cuts just above his left knee as long as my finger and pretty nearly to the bone. Ugly wounds they are, the doctor says. I didn’t see them. He’s all bandaged up. Anyway, he’s out of it, Guy.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then: