“Don’t matter. He’ll do it.”
Tim had dragged a huge watch from his pocket. The men were silent. The whole throng was still. The chirping notes of a robin in a distant apple tree could be heard distinctly. So a moment passed.
Big Tim did not move a muscle; just stood there watching the second hand go around. So another moment passed.
“All—all right.” The larger of the two strangers wet his lips. “All right, you win. Call that fellow over. I’ll tell him.”
“Hey!” Tim roared, “You pitcher! Come over here! This fellow’s got somethin’ to say to you!”
The “Prince” came. The little ceremony was soon over. Then the game was resumed.
“Big Tim,” Johnny whispered, “Even Big Tim is with us! What a wonderful town this is!” Then a thought struck him with the force of a blow. “If only I had the thought-camera I could take a picture of what’s in those fellow’s minds.” He was away like the wind.
He was back in fifteen minutes, but the place where the strangers had been was vacant. “Gone!” he murmured as a wave of keen disappointment swept over him.
They were gone. But were they through? He doubted that. What would they do next? And why? There came no answer.
That was a red letter day for old Hillcrest. The gate receipts were wonderful. Never in the town’s history had there been so many paid admissions to a ball game. This crowd had come to see a mysterious youth pitch a ball game. They were not disappointed. The “Prince” lasted the whole nine innings. After the episode of Big Tim Murphy and the strangers, he pitched like one inspired. In the remaining innings only six men got on base and none came home. The score at the end stood 12 to 1. Again the Hillcrest rooters went wild. Once more Johnny sighed deeply as he murmured, “Only one more game, and the pennant will be won.”