Joe yielded his place to Motter, sent Bissell to coach King from third, and caught Jack on his way to the plate. He had to put his mouth to Jack’s ear in order to make himself heard above the shouting.
“We’ve got to advance King, Jack,” he said. “Wait for a good one, and make a slow bunt toward third; you know the way, old man. Swipe at the first ball as though you were going to knock it over the fence! Then wait for what you want. Keep steady, Jack!” He clapped him on the shoulder encouragingly and sped back to first.
Jack’s hope of rapping out a two-bagger was gone. Joe’s directions were not to be disregarded, and it was a case of substituting team-play for ambition. He settled his cap, wiped his perspiring hands on his trousers, and gripped his bat. When he faced Vose he found that person eying him intently, appraising his ability as a batsman. Jack smiled easily—despite that he felt terribly nervous, and that the muscles at the back of his legs were twitching—and waved his bat forward and back a couple of times as though to say: “Right there, please, and I’ll show you how it’s done!”
Vose looked about the bases very deliberately, and then offered Jack an outshoot. Jack was glad that he had been told to hit at the first delivery, for the mere act of swinging his stick fiercely through the air eased his nerves. He struck at least a foot too late, and the Robinsonians laughed and jeered. Vose thought he knew his man then, and tried the same ball again, and the umpire shook his head and waved his left hand. Jack waited; two balls; strike two; then he saw what he wanted, turned a trifle to the left, brought his bat around quickly and easily, and, as he ran to first, knew that he had succeeded.
The sphere, a new and very white one it was, went rolling toward third base just inside the line. King was making for that base, too, and the baseman indulged in just that instant of hesitation that is fatal. The ball was his to field, yet he feared that if he left his bag none would cover it. When he finally got the ball, reaching it a second before Vose, King was safe on third, Northup was sliding for second, and Jack had crossed first. He tossed the sphere to the pitcher, and the latter went back to the box scowling wrathfully. The Erskine stand was a bank of purple. The senior class president, bareheaded, wilted of collar and crimson of face, was standing on a seat leading the singing:
“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;
Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;
Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;
Oh, poor old Robinson!”
Billings went to bat. Motter was whispering instructions to Jack on first. Vose, calm of face, looked about the bases, while his support called encouragingly to him. Then, before his arm was well back, Jack had started like an express-train toward second. At the same instant King made as though to dash home, and Northup played off half-way to third. The delivery was a poor one, but Condit stopped it, threw off his mask, and, bewildered, threw to second.
It was a costly mistake, for King was sliding across the plate before second-baseman had received the ball, and the Erskine fellows were hugging each other uproariously. Jack had flown back toward first, but half-way there he paused. Northup was caught on his way to third, and now was dancing back and forth with the ball crossing and recrossing above his head, and shortstop and third-baseman closing in on him every second. Then he stumbled and shortstop was on him like a flash, and he crawled to his feet to dust the loam from his shirt and trot off the field. Meanwhile Jack had made a good slide for second, and had beaten the ball.
The score was tied, there was but one out, and a man on second! Is it any wonder that Erskine’s supporters went mad with delight and danced and shouted and threw flags and caps into the air?
When things had settled down once more Billings stepped back into the box. From behind him came imperative demands for a home run. Billings tried his best to accommodate his friends the next instant, for there was a loud crack, and the ball went arching high and far toward right-field. But when it descended the Robinson fielder was under it, and Billings stopped his journey around the bases and came back. The left-fielder sped the ball home quickly, but not soon enough to keep Jack from reaching third.