“If my arm holds out,” Fred finished.
Tall, angular, red-headed, silent and droll, Fred was a universal favorite. He had been a successful pitcher until his arm had taken to going wrong. “I’ll go in,” he said simply, “and do my best.”
A loud cheer greeted him as he walked toward the mound. Despite all this, he felt a chill run up his spine. The score stood 6 to 5 against him. This wonderful crowd had turned out to see their team win. They had banked heavily on the mysterious “Prince.” In this they had lost. Would they lose the game as well?
“Not if I can help it!” Fred set his teeth hard.
“What if that plane returns?” He shuddered. “What if they do to me the thing they did to the ‘Prince,’ whatever that was! Oh well!” He set his shoulders squarely.
But now the shouts of the throng brought him back to earth. Motioning the batter to one side, he prepared to “throw a few over.”
As his hand grasped the ball, as his muscles began playing like iron bands, as the ball went speeding to cut the plate and land with a loud plop in the catcher’s mit, all else but the game was forgotten.
“We must win!” He set his lips tight.
And indeed they must. They had lost one game, could not afford to lose another.
That he was in a hard spot he knew quite well. With the score standing 6 to 5 against him, with men on second and third and only one man out, the game might be lost with a single crack of the bat. It was with a rapidly beating heart that he motioned the batter up.