“Two down. We got ’em!” Meggy screamed. Johnny was silent. Why did he believe in that little yellow man? He was plagued by the question.
“Yes! Yes! We got ’em! There he goes! Down to second. Francois will get him!” For a space of seconds he was sure the game was over.
Like the steady swing of a pendulum the catcher’s arm went up. The ball sped. It came exactly where Roger Kreider’s mit should have been. But Roger muffed it. The hard-thrown ball rolled far into center field. The runner went on to third. Four more wild ones and a batter went to first. The next man up hit one squarely on the nose and boosted it over the fence for a home run. After that the Centralia rooters went mad.
Had Hillcrest lost? The fans watched in grim silence as their team came to bat. It took but one score to tie, and two to win. But those scores never came. They went down swinging bravely, one, two, three. The game was over. Hillcrest had lost.
“There will be other games,” Johnny consoled the disconsolate Meggy. “Many more.” And at that instant he resolved that Colonel Chamberlain’s star pitcher should be in the box for the next game. “Even if I have to drag him by the heels!” he muttered grimly.
But Meggy, staring at him in a strange way, whispered, “Johnny, how did you know?”
“I—I didn’t,” Johnny replied hoarsely, “not really.”
Then he ducked. He saw the little Chinaman approaching and did not want to be seen in his company.
Ten minutes later the diminutive Tao Sing caught up with him.
“You see!” He was all smiles. “I tell you! I have picture of what you think. I have picture of what Barney Bradford think too. You are good friend of Wung Lu.” Once again his voice dropped. “Monday I show you picture of what you think. Four o’clock? Heh? Mebby all right. Heh? You come to Whong Lee’s place, yes? All right. Monday.”