The Stars found their voices once more. A vociferous din, in which megaphones and tin horns added to the volume, came from all parts of the field.
"Ah, here's where I do it!" cried John Hackett. "Watch me, Nat. If I don't everlastingly smack the pill I'll work an hour overtime at the store."
"I can stand Hackett's blow because it only makes you grin," mumbled "Crackers." "He knows enough not to mean what he says."
"Say, John looks as dangerous as a regular league player, doesn't he?"
The Stars' coacher near first was bawling out his orders with monotonous regularity.
It was an anxious moment for the High. With none out, the situation looked mighty serious, especially as one of Nat's strongest batters stood at the plate. Two balls and a strike were called before John Hackett got into action. The tall player then swung with all his force.
A terrific bounder shot off in the direction of first base.
At the crack of the bat Conway Fuller, with lowered head, started for home. The rousing cheers of the Stars rose to frantic heights; the purple and white rooters stood glum and silent. Tom Clifton sprang off his base to intercept the ball. The yells—the sight of the wildly-excited boys—made only an indistinct impression on his mind. For the moment, to him, nothing existed but the ball lashing viciously over the ground.
It smacked resoundingly into his gloved hand. Without straightening up, Tom drove it unerringly home and sprang back to the sack.
There was a different sound to the cheers which now reached his ears. They had a volume which made the preceding shouts fade into insignificance. Fuller was out at the plate, and Brentall had whipped the ball back to him.