The instant Grimshaw received the return throw, he whipped in the speediest inshoot of which he was capable. Brandon was not caught napping. He met it by the merest tip, and a little pop fly dropped safely in the territory usually covered by short-stop.
Fenton raced home, and the score was tied.
"Hi, hi! Did we ever see a ball before!" cried Dick. "Oh—wow! It'll be about ten to three."
But the end of the seventh told a different story. Mr. Fenton's card showed the score to be seven to six in favor of the Ramblers.
Bob stepped up, determined to make a mighty effort. Grimshaw was weakening.
"Put it over, Grimmy," yelled Dugan. "He can't hit anything—never could."
The captain smiled, then bunted, and the ball rolled slowly toward the pitcher. Grimshaw made a frantic dash, fumbled it, and Bob, on a close decision, was declared safe at first.
"Oh, yi, yi, he calls that safe!" yelled Dugan. "The feller was out by a mile. We won't stand for anything like that."
He came in from second, followed by several of the others, and the home plate was immediately surrounded. Then the crowd began to shout.
"Get back to your places," commanded the umpire, briefly.