Erskine managed to find High School’s pitcher to good effect in the last of the seventh and piled up four more runs, two of them fairly earned. When Erskine trotted into the field again Hanson and Perkins had materially altered her batting list. King, who had been playing in left-field, went into the pitcher’s box, and Jack was sent out to left-field. Griffin succeeded Joe as catcher, Mears took Motter’s place at first, and Smith went in at shortstop.
Jack watched events from his position over near the rail fence and was never once disturbed; for King retired the opposing batsmen in one, two, three order, and the sides again changed places. Jack didn’t have a chance to show what he could do with the stick, for High School, following Erskine’s lead, put a new man into the box, and the new man puzzled the batsmen so that only one reached first, and was left there when Billings, third-baseman, popped a short fly into the hands of High School’s shortstop. Jack trotted back to the rail fence very disgusted.
It was the last inning. The sun was getting low and the chill of early evening caused Jack to swing his arms and prance around to keep the blood circulating. Over by the bench he could see them packing the bats away, and a little stream of spectators was filling around behind the back fence toward the gate. High School had reached the tail-end of her batting list again, and, to all appearances, the game was as good as finished. But last innings can’t always be depended upon to behave as expected. The present one proved this. High School’s first man at bat heroically tried to smash a long fly into outfield and, all by good luck, bunted the ball into the dust at his feet. After a moment of bewilderment, he put out for first and reached it at the same time as the ball. High School’s noisy supporters took new courage and awoke the echoes with their fantastic war-whoop. King looked bothered for an instant, and in that instant struck the next batsman on the elbow. The latter, rubbing the bruise and grinning joyfully, trotted to first and the man ahead took second.
“Huh,” muttered Jack, rubbing his chilled hands together, “something doing, after all.”
But King settled down then, and, after three attempts to catch the High School runner napping at second base, struck out the next man very nicely. The succeeding one, finding a straight ball, bunted it toward first, and, while he was tagged out by King, advanced the runners. High School’s supporters, gathered into a little bunch on the stand, waved their flags and ribbons, and shouted frantically. For surely, with men on third and second and their best batter selecting his stick, a run was not unlikely. Hanson shouted a command and King, repeating it, motioned the fielders in. Jack obeyed, doubtingly, for he had watched the present player and believed him capable of hitting hard. And so, although he made pretense of shortening field, he remained pretty much where he had been. And a moment later he was heartily glad of it.
For the High School batsman, a tall, lanky, but very determined-looking youth, found King’s first delivery and raced for first. Along the base-lines the coaches were shouting unintelligible things and flourishing their caps. The runners on third and second were running home. In the outfield Bissell, center-fielder, was speeding back, cutting over into Jack’s territory as he went. Jack, too, was going up the field, yet cautiously, for the shadows were gathering and it was hard to tell where the little black speck up there against the purple sky was going to fall. Yet when, with a final glance over his shoulder, he took up his position, and heard Bissell, panting from his run, cry: “All yours, Weatherby!” he never doubted that he would catch it. To Jack a fly was merely a baseball that required catching; and he was there to catch it. So he took a step or two forward, put up his hands, and pulled it down. Then he threw it to second-baseman and trotted in.
When he reached the plate the applause had died away and the remainder of the audience was hurrying off the field. The players were finding sweaters and, having thrown them over their shoulders, were hurrying across to the locker-house. Jack, searching for his own, heard Hanson’s voice behind him:
“Well, Joe, we’ve got one man who can catch a ball, eh?”
Jack knew that he wasn’t supposed to hear that remark, and so he took his time at pulling his white sweater out of the pile. When he turned, the head coach and captain were walking away. Jack followed, feeling very thankful that he had not missed his one chance of the game. As he entered the door he almost ran against the coach. Hanson smiled into his face as he stepped aside.
“That was a very fair catch, Weatherby,” he said.