Shaw gritted his teeth and held his bat in a vise. He too was watching the clouds, and knew that this might be their last chance. He had made one hit. Why couldn't he make another? And he did—a short one to right. And when Jackson followed by a foxy little bunt, the field almost went wild. Three men on bases and none out.
Blake went to the bat, and as he did so he turned and looked at Braddy's brother; and he said afterwards that if ever a man had been inspired by a glance, he had been that day—"and it wasn't a girl, either." Such eager hope and earnest faith shone in little Brad's face that no one could have helped making a home run, and that's what happened to Blake, and he only realized the miracle as he dived for the home-plate, while the long cheer, and the short cheer, and the locomotive cheer, and the distant thunder all combined to bring to his consciousness the stupendous fact that he had made himself immortal.
It was surely Princeton's inning, for Field made his first two-bagger, and was brought in on a bad overthrow. Then, with two men out, Green got his base on balls, stole second and third, and reached home on another single by Williams, and the score stood 6 to 5 when Yale came to the bat.
Would the rain hold off for ten minutes more? It was doubtful. But Blake was determined not to lose any time, and strike after strike was called amid the wildest enthusiasm, and in one, two, three order the New Haven men were retired, just as the storm, which had been gathering, so ominously, burst.
There was a stampede from the bleachers, ladies crowding into the grand stand and men making for the cage. The small boys dropped from trees and fences, and the ripping thunder, blinding lightning, and pelting rain had it all their own way for full fifteen minutes; and all that time "Little Brad" glowed like a miniature sun on the 'varsity bench, where the nine sat in cheerful resignation.
But the game wasn't over, for the sky cleared with the same violence it had shown in clouding over, and though every one felt that somewhere there must have been a fearful ravaging storm, Princeton had fortunately only gotten the edge of it. The umpire declared himself ready, and Princeton went to the bat, only, like Yale, to go out in one, two, three order.
"The fatal seventh!" groaned the alumni, as they saw the Yale Captain take his base on balls.
"The fatal seventh!" said Braddy's brother, under his breath, as Watson took his base on a bad error.
Alas, the fatal seventh! For though the next man flied out to short stop, and the next to third base, Atkinson made a clean two-bagger, and the blue in the grand stand broke out as the patches of sky had done, and the frog chorus held a jubilee, for Yale had tied the score, and Yale luck would surely do the rest. But with Atkinson jumping about on second, and Watson leading off daringly at third, Blake pitched three straight strikes, and saved the day.
Neither scored in the eighth inning, and the ninth commenced in that hushed suspense which makes one wonder whether a close game pays. But Braddy's brother knew that Princeton would win; and when, with one out, Blake took his base on balls, and Field made a safe hit, he moistened his pencil to write the telegram to Tom on his score-card, but waited long enough to see Woods, for the first time in the season, send the ball over centre-field's head, and Blake and Field come home.