The next man got his base on balls, all due to his "beautiful eye," the Yale Captain seemed to think. Then Blake rallied and struck Jenkins out; and though Watson brought Smith to third on a sacrifice, the little shortstop fielded the next ball in fine style, and the runner was out.
But Yale proved to be anything but "easy," for though the crowd in white duck trousers on the bleachers cheered themselves hoarse as directed with unremitting energy by their appointed leaders, not a single safe hit, or even an unearned run, was squeezed out of the next four innings; while Yale went in, and by timely sacrifices and well-bunched hits ran her score up to five. Five to nothing, and little Brad would have to telegraph that to Tom.
The grand stand grew very quiet, though here and there were bunches of blue ribbon waving amid the glowing mass of orange and black. The men had stopped explaining the game to their sisters and friends. Let them ask why the same ones who batted the ball had to run, and why they changed sides so often. Their questions fell on the unresponsive air.
Princeton came to the bat for the sixth inning. As Blake walked in from the pitcher's box, tired and discouraged, his eyes fell upon "Braddy's brother" leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. The droop of the strong young shoulders and the strained intense look gave him an added pang. It seemed like wanton cruelty to so bitterly disappoint a boy, and he knew that little Brad was feeling and suffering for two. Bingo tried to smile as the Captain put his arm round him, but it was hard work. His nerves were strung up to such a pitch that he could easily have cried, but one does not often do that at fourteen.
"We'll beat them yet, little Brad," said Blake. "See if we don't."
"We'll have to do it in this inning, then," answered Bingo, "because it's going to rain like everything."
Blake looked up. The clouds were piling on top of one another black as night in the west, a tremendous wind had sprung up, and the dust was blowing a mile a minute. "Whew!" he whistled, "it looks like a cyclone; we will have to do it this time—sure." And he walked over to coach.
Williams was at the bat; two balls were called, then a strike; another ball. "Good eye—steady now—steady"—then a burst of applause, for his eye had proved true, and he took his base to the stimulating strains of the triple cheer.
"Lead off—lively—look out—now you're off!" yelled Blake, and he was off, hurling himself at second with a reckless disregard of life and limb.
"Safe!" declared the umpire, and the sky-rocket cheer broke loose again.