Now Tug came to the bat; and while he was gathering his strength for a death-dealing blow at the ball, the two base-runners made ready to take advantage of anything he should hit. The right-fielder played off too far, and, to Tug's despair, was caught by a quick throw from the pitcher to the first baseman.
Tug's heart turned sick within him, for there were two men out, and the only man on base was Sleepy, who could never be counted on to make a two-base run on a one-base hit.
As Tug stood bewailing his fate, the ball shot past him, and the umpire cried:
"Strike—one!"
Tug shook himself together with a jolt, and struck furiously at the next ball.
"Strike—two!" sang the umpire.
And now the umpire had upon his lips the fatal words:
"Strike—three!"
For as he looked down the line traced in the air by the ball, he saw that Tug had misjudged it. But for once science meant suicide; for though Tug struck wildly, the ball condescendingly curved down and fell full and fair upon the bat, and danced off again over the first baseman's head and toward the feet of the right-fielder. This worthy player ran swiftly for it and bent forward, but he could not reach it. It struck him a smarting whack on the instep, and bounded off outside the foul-line; and while he limped painfully after it, there was time even for the sleepy Sleepy to reach the plate and score a run.
And then the right-fielder, half blinded with pain, threw the ball at nobody in particular, and it went into the crowd back of third base, and Tug came in unopposed.