In the ninth, two Centralia men fanned. The game seemed over. Then came a two-bagger, followed by a single that brought in a run. By taking wild chances, the runner on first base stole second, then third. So there it was, last inning, two men down and the tying run on third.
Wildly Fred’s eyes searched the crowd for the familiar figure of the “Prince.”
“He’s gone,” a voice seemed to whisper. “You may never see him again. Perhaps he is no real person at all—just a sort of imaginary being. It’s up to you, and you alone!”
Then the catcher gave him a signal. For such a time as this, it seemed a piece of madness, that signal. But Fred was desperate. He took the chance.
Winding up, he sent the ball spinning. It was a wild throw—a perfect wild throw, if wild throws you want. By one mad leap the catcher was able to knock it down. Even so, he did not stop it. It went on rolling. He was after it in a mad scramble.
Shooting down the course came the tying run.
But not so fast! Francisco the catcher had the ball. He was on the home plate. The runner turned to dash back. He all but fell into Fred’s arms. And Fred had the ball. Francisco had passed it back to him.
This mad play, so cleverly planned and executed, had won! The game was over. Hillcrest was champion!
The crowd went wild. Seizing Fred, they tossed him to their shoulders, shouting: “Hurray for Fred! Hurray for Fred!” He tried to shout, “The ‘Prince’!” but his cries were drowned by a roar.
It was an interesting group that gathered in Colonel Chamberlain’s office two hours later. There was Johnny and Goggles, Fred Frame and Meggy. Besides these there was Big Bill Tyson and close beside him, grim and sullen, sat the two strangers who had caused so much trouble. There was too a tall, slightly stooped young man. At first the boys stared at him in wondering silence. “Who is he? Who can he be?” they whispered.