The Robinson band had started bravely to work once more, but across the diamond the Erskine leaders had brought order out of chaos, and four hundred purple-flaunting enthusiasts were again cheering slowly and in unison:
“Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!”
And the cheers took on new force when it was seen that the Purple’s captain was the next batsman. Joe had given a message to King, and now King was imparting it to Jack down at third base, and Jack was nodding back to Joe. Robinson’s catcher, Condit, was badly rattled, and Joe knew it and was planning accordingly. The stands settled down into comparative quietude, and Vose, still calm and confident-looking, pitching the game of his life, faced his new opponent. The outfield came in a bit.
Vose’s first delivery was easily a ball, and his second was undeniably a strike. Then followed an outshoot and a drop, neither of which did Joe take to. Back went the ball to Vose, and, with King shouting weirdly at third, he shot his arms overhead and sped it again toward the plate. Then an odd thing happened.
The ball was a drop. Joe struck at it hard, dropped his bat, and flew toward base. The catcher, who had stopped the ball on the ground, stood up, glared bewilderedly, and then, concluding that it had been the third strike, threw to first-baseman, Vose shouting warnings which he did not hear. Jack, the moment Joe had struck, had started warily toward home, and although first-baseman caught the ball and hurled it back to the plate in the next instant, he was lying above the base in a cloud of dust ere the catcher tagged him. Again pandemonium broke lose on the Erskine stand. The Purple was one run ahead.
Joe trotted back to the plate and picked up his bat, and Jack went to the bench, dusty, panting, and happy, to be hugged and slapped by the delighted occupants. There followed a pause in the game’s progress during which Robinson’s captain sought to find a rule that would put Jack back on third. But Joe’s strategy was within the law, and presently the Robinson catcher picked up his mask miserably and the captain, disgruntled, went slowly back to his position in center-field.
The incident appeared to have discouraged both the battery and the support. Vose took up his work listlessly, and in a moment Joe was walking to first on four balls. A minute later he had stolen second. Motter bunted toward first, and beat the ball to base. Joe took third. Vose was now plainly rattled, and a wild pitch became a passed ball, and Motter went to second, Joe, however, fearing to attempt to score. Then Lowe took up the stick.
Lowe bided his time, and had two strikes called on him before he swung his bat. When he did he found the ball fairly, and drove a terrific grounder into outfield between first and second bases. Joe jogged home from third, and Motter, his legs making a purple streak, sped like the wind to third. Lowe sat down on first and tied his shoe. Bissell went to bat, and was deceived by a drop that absolutely hit the plate. And right there the half ended, for Lowe tried to steal second, and was put out four feet from the bag.
There was joy in the Erskine camp. The score stood now 3 to 1. If her players could hold Robinson from further scoring the day was won. And, with King in the pitcher’s box, it seemed that it might be done. Regan went to bat for Robinson, and stood there idly swinging his stick while the umpire sang: “Strike one!... Strike two!... Striker’s out!” And then, to fill Erskine’s cup overflowing with delight, King struck out Vose and Cox in just the same way; and the cheering broke forth anew, loudly, triumphantly. And the ninth and last inning began with little Knox at the bat.
It would be pleasant to relate how Knox knocked a home run and how Erskine continued the performance inaugurated in the preceding inning. Unfortunately, that is impossible. Knox was struck out, King was thrown out at first, Northup made a base hit, but was left there a minute later when Jack flied out miserably to Vose. The stands were emptying themselves of their throngs and supporters of the rival colleges crowded along the base-lines cheering doggedly or ecstatically, as the case might be. King picked up the ball, Joe donned his mask, Motter thumped his mit, and Jack, at second, danced about from one foot to the other out of sheer joy. Near at hand Knox was grinning like a schoolboy, and calling shrilly to King to “Eat ’em up, Greg!”