“First man, fellows!” cried Joe cheerfully.
Condit stepped to the plate. He was pale, and looked an easy victim. But luck turned its back upon the Purple, for at his second delivery King struck the Robinson catcher on the elbow, and the latter took his base. Robinson’s friends took courage, and their cheers thundered over the field. Then came Hopkins, the “hard-hitter,” and swung his bat knowingly. King realized that here was foeman worthy of steel, and was accordingly careful.
But Hopkins was desperate. He found the second ball, and it went flying toward center-field. Bissell failed to reach it in time to get his hands on it before it struck the ground, and Hopkins gained second, Condit going to third. Morgan followed with a slow grounder toward King. King fielded it to first too late, after making sure that Condit was not trying to score, and the bases were full. A home run would win for Robinson! A two-base hit would tie the score!
The brown banners flaunted and gyrated in the air, throwing strange dancing silhouettes upon the turf. The shadow of the western stand had lengthened across the infield. Back of the stand the sky was aglow with orange, while toward the village a golden haze filled the air.
The throng at large was silent, intense, expectant. Yet here and there sections of the throng still shouted, and back of the dense wall of spectators on the Robinson side of the field the band was playing. A cheer, undismayed yet faint, ran along the ranks of the Erskine supporters. It is hard to shout when your heart is throbbing away up in your throat. Devlin went to bat, his determined chin thrust forth and his sharp eyes sparkling from between half-closed lids as he watched the pitcher. Joe Perkins half knelt behind him and held a big mitten invitingly open on his left knee.
“Steady, fellows!” he called cheerfully. “Play for the plate!”
His voice rang true, with never a quiver in it. Yet now and then his heart raced and thumped for an instant in a way that turned him half faint. Despite the tiny beads of perspiration that trickled down his face, he was livid, and the fingers in the hot leathern mit trembled and twitched. If he could keep those brown-legged players from crossing the plate the game was won for Erskine and his labors and hopes were crowned with success. If! He groaned as he thought of all that might happen ere the third man was put out. For the first time during the contest he was nervous; for the first time almost in memory he was frightened through and through. Then his gaze swept over the field and he saw Motter at first carelessly flipping a pebble across the grass, Weatherby alert and impatient at second, Northup shading his eyes with his hand as he stood motionless in right-field, Knox calling blithely to King as he slapped his hands together, and beyond, Bissell and Lowe, their figures throwing long, slanting shadows across the turf. Then King’s left hand wandered carelessly across his forehead, his arms shot up, and Joe, reaching out, drew in the first delivery.
“Strike,” droned the umpire.
Joe’s fright passed with the settling of the sphere in his hands. The blood crept back into his cheeks and courage into his heart. Returning the ball, he eased his mask, thumped his hands together, and called confidently to King.