The loud coaching of Mills and continuous cries from the field, intended to disconcert the Ramblers, only served to spur pitcher Somers to greater efforts. Putting forth every ounce of strength he possessed, the captain sent in an inshoot.
The batter knocked a fly, which Fenton on third easily caught. Clayton, who had been playing off second, just got back in the nick of time.
Mills fanned the air three times, and threw down his bat in disgust. Their chances seemed about to go glimmering, yet one good hit might save the day.
Dalton, a big, strong chap, older than any of his team mates, faced the pitcher. Clayton played away off second. It was a moment of intense interest to the spectators and anxiety to the Ramblers.
Bob forced the runner back to the base by a throw, then pitched the ball quickly. Clayton anticipated this, risked everything and was instantly off on a wild dash for third.
Sam handled the sphere nicely, making a perfect throw.
There was an expectant hush, as ball and runner neared the bag. A cloud of dust arose. Clayton had thrown himself flat, and touched the base with his hand.
The silence, intensified until not a sound could be heard, continued for a moment longer. Then Mr. Perkins' voice rang out clearly. "Safe," he said.
A storm of cheers broke forth, while the cries which it was hoped would disconcert the pitcher redoubled.
"One strike!"