“All paid attendance.” Old Professor George rubbed his hands together. “You boys are doing wonders! Hurray for old Hillcrest!”
“Yes!” Doug was truly happy. “But we must win today, Professor. We truly must!”
But would they? Centralia, the opposing team, their ancient rival, was first up to bat. As the mysterious “Prince” strolled out upon the diamond a strange hush fell over the assembled throng.
There were those in that crowd who had said quite boldly that this mystery should not be allowed to continue, that the pitcher should reveal his true identity or stay out of the game. “Only evil people wish to hide their identity,” this was their argument.
So, with the “Prince” in the box, the game began. For three innings he pitched a faultless game. Only two men found their way to first base. They “died” there, Hillcrest scored twice. Hopes ran high. Even Johnny Thompson, sitting on the bench and expecting almost anything, began to smile.
And then, out of the west came a gray streak.
Just as he expected, as on that other day the airplane began to circle. Down it came, lower and lower.
The “Prince” did not glance up. “But he knows,” Johnny whispered. “He’s—he’s beginning to break from the strain.”
Surely this must be true. “Men on first and second; only one out!” Johnny groaned. “They—they’ll make it. Sure to. And then—”
But what was this? A fire? To the west, hardly three blocks away, a dense column of smoke appeared. Rising higher and higher in the all but quiet sky, it at last drifted slowly over the ball grounds. So dense was it that it cast a deep shadow over all.