“That’s the eye, Greg; once more!”
Erskine applauded grandly. Then followed two balls. The coaches were shouting like maniacs and the runners were set, like sprinters on the mark, ready to spring into flight on the instant. Joe signaled a drop. It came, and Devlin tried and missed.
“Strike two,” droned the little umpire.
Again the supporters of the Purple shouted and waved their colors against the evening sky. King swept a glance about the bases, unmindful of the coachers’ taunts, settled himself once more, and pitched. Devlin’s body moved quickly forward, ball and bat met squarely, Devlin raced toward first, and the runners on the bases sprang away.
Out by second, Jack, on his toes, alert and ready for anything, heard the crack of bat against ball, and instinctively ran toward base. Hopkins, head down, started like a flash toward third. Then Jack’s eyes found the ball. It was speeding toward him, straight, swift and well over his head. He stopped in his tracks a foot or two behind the base-line, threw his hands high into the air, put his weight on to his toes, and then [sprang straight upward until there was a good two feet between him and the turf]. To the excited watchers it seemed that for an instant he hung there suspended, a lithe, slim figure against the golden sunset haze. Then the ball stung his hands, the throng broke into confused shouting, and—
[Weatherby sprang straight upward, two feet above the turf.]
“Back! Back!” shrieked the coaches.
The runners turned in their tracks and scuttled for the bases they had left like rabbits for their burrows. Jack, the ball securely clutched, reached second in two strides, and then, with a lightning survey of the situation, threw straight and sure to Billings at third. Condit, arrested ten feet from the plate by the coaches’ warnings, had doubled back, and now was racing desperately for third base and safety. Six feet from the bag he launched himself forward, arms outstretched. A trailing cloud of red dust arose into the still air, and the ball thumped into the baseman’s hands. The little fat umpire swung his hand circling toward the bases.
“Game!” he said.