Foes though they were, I gave them the credit of playing a splendid up hill game. In the sixth inning they secured one run, and in the eighth inning another, making the score 3–2. During these innings Arnold’s work had been exceptionally fine, and we had been unable to make more than two or three safe hits.
“I’m afraid Arnold is almost too much for us to-day,” said Ray to me. “Our hope lies chiefly in holding the lead. If we can do so for one more inning, the game is ours.”
We went into the field for the ninth inning with the determination to do or die. The first batter was promptly put out by a ground hit which Ray captured neatly, in spite of the disconcerting howls from the grand stand. As the excitement had increased during the latter part of the game, the behavior of the Park men had of course grown more riotous. In every way they had tried to put us out by their noise, but our attention was so absorbed in our work that it had scarcely affected us.
The second batter in this last inning reached first on a safe hit, and was followed by Arnold, who, from the scowl he wore, seemed bent on knocking the cover off the ball. I was sorry to see him at the bat at such a moment, for he was a strong batter, and I was pretty well tired out by my hard work of the afternoon and Saturday. Several balls were called, and I was compelled to send one directly over the plate. Arnold saw his chance and took it.
With a sharp crack he sent the ball away out toward right field, and reached second base in safety, sending the former runner to third. This made two men out, with runners on second and third bases.
Beard then came to the bat. From the care with which he settled himself, one could see he appreciated the gravity of the situation. If he succeeded in making a heavy hit, the chances were that he could bring in two runs.
At the second ball he struck wildly; and, more by chance than good judgment, drove it well up into the air toward center field. We all looked after it with anxious eyes.
“Take it, Page!” cried Ray, as he saw both Lewis Page and Alfred Barnett run for it. Arnold and the other runner ran around toward the home plate. The fate of the game, therefore, rested on Lewis Page, who now stood well under the ball, his hands up, ready to receive it. We watched its descent in breathless suspense. Downward it shot like a swallow. Lewis Page’s hands closed quickly about it.
“Striker out,” called the umpire, and the game was over.
Immediately the field was a scene of wild confusion. In a mass, Clinton Edward’s band of followers, who had been with difficulty suppressing their excitement, charged across the roadway, shouting and cheering. Seizing hold of us, they hugged and tore us half to pieces in their joy.