The seventh inning began with Tracy Gilberth at bat. He watched Vose with interest while that lanky youth settled himself to his task, hopeful that at last Robinson’s star player was weary enough to allow the opponents to hit him. But Tracy was doomed to disappointment. Vose’s arm was tired, beyond a doubt, but he only took more time at his work, his curves remaining as puzzling as ever. Tracy struck out ingloriously, just as he had done pretty much all through the game. Vose was still on his mettle.

Bissell’s fate was the same, while as for Knox, although he managed, by good judgment, to get three balls to his credit, yet in the end he too tossed aside his bat in deep disgust; and the nines again changed sides.

Robinson’s first man up was the redoubtable Hopkins; he had gained the sobriquet of “Hard-hitting Hopkins” last season. So far to-day, while he had managed to find Tracy rather frequently, his hits had netted little. But Tracy judged discretion the better part of valor, and deliberately gave Hopkins his base, while the purple-decked stands hooted loudly. Having given the other his base, Tracy next tried to take it away from him, but Hopkins was quick on his feet and time and again Motter got the ball too late to tag him out. Tracy gave it up finally, and turned his attention to the next batsman, Morgan.

Morgan popped a foul to the foot of the stand, and Joe, hurling aside his mask, got it after a brilliant sprint of twenty yards. Devlin struck out and Hopkins stole second. The Brown’s captain came to the plate with determination to do great deeds written large on his face. After getting two strikes on him, Tracy couldn’t put the ball over the base, and Wood walked to first.

Then, with two on bases, Robinson saw visions of another tally. But Tracy settled down again and struck out the third man, Richman, and again the Erskine contingent sighed with relief and cheered gleefully.

Jack, who during the inning had had nothing to do, trotted in and examined the score-book over Patterson’s shoulder. He found that he would be the third man at bat, and wondered a bit nervously whether he would have any better success with the mighty Vose’s curves than had his predecessor, who was now sitting weary and dispirited on the bench. King, who during the first half of the previous inning had been limbering up his arm, was put in for Tracy, and Lowe took his place in left-field. Tracy sprawled himself down on the grass beside Jack with a sigh.

“I wish to thunder I’d been able to hit that dub Vose just one!” he growled.

“What’s he like?” Jack asked.

“Like a Chinese puzzle,” Tracy replied grimly. “When you try him, Weatherby, look out for his drops; they’re the worst; they come straight to about four feet from the plate, then they go down so fast that you can’t see ’em. His inshoots are simple compared with those drops. Watch for fast balls, and when you see one coming, slug it! Make him think you can’t bat, Weatherby; it’s your first time up, and maybe you can fool him.”

“I’ll try,” Jack answered dubiously. “Good work, King!”

King was speeding to first, having made a clean hit to the outfield just over shortstop’s head. The Erskine stand burst into wild and confused cheering. Northup selected his bat and went to the plate, and Joe Perkins, after whispering directions into his ear, ran to the white line back of first base and began coaching King at the top of his lungs. Vose settled the ball in his hands, tapped the earth with his brass-toed shoe, and glanced sharply toward the runner.

“Play off, Greg!” shouted Joe. “He won’t throw! He’s too tired! Now, now, now! This time! Look out!”

King scuttled around back of the bag and reached it before the baseman swung at him with the ball.

“Hold it, he’s got the ball!” cautioned Joe. “All right, now; on your toes. Down with his arm! He won’t throw again!”

Vose looked as though he intended to, then turned quickly and pitched. The ball went wide, and had it not struck Northup on the hip would have given King two bases, since the Robinson catcher would never have stopped it. As it was, King, who was almost to second, trotted back and tagged base. The umpire waved his hand to Northup, and the latter went limping to first. King jogged to second, and the Erskine cheers drowned every sound for several minutes. Two on bases and none out! It looked like a tally.

Joe yielded his place to Motter, sent Bissell to coach King from third, and caught Jack on his way to the plate. He had to put his mouth to Jack’s ear in order to make himself heard above the shouting.

“We’ve got to advance King, Jack,” he said. “Wait for a good one, and make a slow bunt toward third; you know the way, old man. Swipe at the first ball as though you were going to knock it over the fence! Then wait for what you want. Keep steady, Jack!” He clapped him on the shoulder encouragingly and sped back to first.

Jack’s hope of rapping out a two-bagger was gone. Joe’s directions were not to be disregarded, and it was a case of substituting team-play for ambition. He settled his cap, wiped his perspiring hands on his trousers, and gripped his bat. When he faced Vose he found that person eying him intently, appraising his ability as a batsman. Jack smiled easily – despite that he felt terribly nervous, and that the muscles at the back of his legs were twitching – and waved his bat forward and back a couple of times as though to say: “Right there, please, and I’ll show you how it’s done!”

Vose looked about the bases very deliberately, and then offered Jack an outshoot. Jack was glad that he had been told to hit at the first delivery, for the mere act of swinging his stick fiercely through the air eased his nerves. He struck at least a foot too late, and the Robinsonians laughed and jeered. Vose thought he knew his man then, and tried the same ball again, and the umpire shook his head and waved his left hand. Jack waited; two balls; strike two; then he saw what he wanted, turned a trifle to the left, brought his bat around quickly and easily, and, as he ran to first, knew that he had succeeded.

The sphere, a new and very white one it was, went rolling toward third base just inside the line. King was making for that base, too, and the baseman indulged in just that instant of hesitation that is fatal. The ball was his to field, yet he feared that if he left his bag none would cover it. When he finally got the ball, reaching it a second before Vose, King was safe on third, Northup was sliding for second, and Jack had crossed first. He tossed the sphere to the pitcher, and the latter went back to the box scowling wrathfully. The Erskine stand was a bank of purple. The senior class president, bareheaded, wilted of collar and crimson of face, was standing on a seat leading the singing:

“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;
Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;
Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;
Oh, poor old Robinson!”

Billings went to bat. Motter was whispering instructions to Jack on first. Vose, calm of face, looked about the bases, while his support called encouragingly to him. Then, before his arm was well back, Jack had started like an express-train toward second. At the same instant King made as though to dash home, and Northup played off half-way to third. The delivery was a poor one, but Condit stopped it, threw off his mask, and, bewildered, threw to second.

It was a costly mistake, for King was sliding across the plate before second-baseman had received the ball, and the Erskine fellows were hugging each other uproariously. Jack had flown back toward first, but half-way there he paused. Northup was caught on his way to third, and now was dancing back and forth with the ball crossing and recrossing above his head, and shortstop and third-baseman closing in on him every second. Then he stumbled and shortstop was on him like a flash, and he crawled to his feet to dust the loam from his shirt and trot off the field. Meanwhile Jack had made a good slide for second, and had beaten the ball.

The score was tied, there was but one out, and a man on second! Is it any wonder that Erskine’s supporters went mad with delight and danced and shouted and threw flags and caps into the air?

When things had settled down once more Billings stepped back into the box. From behind him came imperative demands for a home run. Billings tried his best to accommodate his friends the next instant, for there was a loud crack, and the ball went arching high and far toward right-field. But when it descended the Robinson fielder was under it, and Billings stopped his journey around the bases and came back. The left-fielder sped the ball home quickly, but not soon enough to keep Jack from reaching third.

The Robinson band had started bravely to work once more, but across the diamond the Erskine leaders had brought order out of chaos, and four hundred purple-flaunting enthusiasts were again cheering slowly and in unison:

“Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!”

And the cheers took on new force when it was seen that the Purple’s captain was the next batsman. Joe had given a message to King, and now King was imparting it to Jack down at third base, and Jack was nodding back to Joe. Robinson’s catcher, Condit, was badly rattled, and Joe knew it and was planning accordingly. The stands settled down into comparative quietude, and Vose, still calm and confident-looking, pitching the game of his life, faced his new opponent. The outfield came in a bit.

Vose’s first delivery was easily a ball, and his second was undeniably a strike. Then followed an outshoot and a drop, neither of which did Joe take to. Back went the ball to Vose, and, with King shouting weirdly at third, he shot his arms overhead and sped it again toward the plate. Then an odd thing happened.

The ball was a drop. Joe struck at it hard, dropped his bat, and flew toward base. The catcher, who had stopped the ball on the ground, stood up, glared bewilderedly, and then, concluding that it had been the third strike, threw to first-baseman, Vose shouting warnings which he did not hear. Jack, the moment Joe had struck, had started warily toward home, and although first-baseman caught the ball and hurled it back to the plate in the next instant, he was lying above the base in a cloud of dust ere the catcher tagged him. Again pandemonium broke lose on the Erskine stand. The Purple was one run ahead.

Joe trotted back to the plate and picked up his bat, and Jack went to the bench, dusty, panting, and happy, to be hugged and slapped by the delighted occupants. There followed a pause in the game’s progress during which Robinson’s captain sought to find a rule that would put Jack back on third. But Joe’s strategy was within the law, and presently the Robinson catcher picked up his mask miserably and the captain, disgruntled, went slowly back to his position in center-field.

The incident appeared to have discouraged both the battery and the support. Vose took up his work listlessly, and in a moment Joe was walking to first on four balls. A minute later he had stolen second. Motter bunted toward first, and beat the ball to base. Joe took third. Vose was now plainly rattled, and a wild pitch became a passed ball, and Motter went to second, Joe, however, fearing to attempt to score. Then Lowe took up the stick.

Lowe bided his time, and had two strikes called on him before he swung his bat. When he did he found the ball fairly, and drove a terrific grounder into outfield between first and second bases. Joe jogged home from third, and Motter, his legs making a purple streak, sped like the wind to third. Lowe sat down on first and tied his shoe. Bissell went to bat, and was deceived by a drop that absolutely hit the plate. And right there the half ended, for Lowe tried to steal second, and was put out four feet from the bag.

There was joy in the Erskine camp. The score stood now 3 to 1. If her players could hold Robinson from further scoring the day was won. And, with King in the pitcher’s box, it seemed that it might be done. Regan went to bat for Robinson, and stood there idly swinging his stick while the umpire sang: “Strike one!.. Strike two!.. Striker’s out!” And then, to fill Erskine’s cup overflowing with delight, King struck out Vose and Cox in just the same way; and the cheering broke forth anew, loudly, triumphantly. And the ninth and last inning began with little Knox at the bat.

It would be pleasant to relate how Knox knocked a home run and how Erskine continued the performance inaugurated in the preceding inning. Unfortunately, that is impossible. Knox was struck out, King was thrown out at first, Northup made a base hit, but was left there a minute later when Jack flied out miserably to Vose. The stands were emptying themselves of their throngs and supporters of the rival colleges crowded along the base-lines cheering doggedly or ecstatically, as the case might be. King picked up the ball, Joe donned his mask, Motter thumped his mit, and Jack, at second, danced about from one foot to the other out of sheer joy. Near at hand Knox was grinning like a schoolboy, and calling shrilly to King to “Eat ’em up, Greg!”

“First man, fellows!” cried Joe cheerfully.

Condit stepped to the plate. He was pale, and looked an easy victim. But luck turned its back upon the Purple, for at his second delivery King struck the Robinson catcher on the elbow, and the latter took his base. Robinson’s friends took courage, and their cheers thundered over the field. Then came Hopkins, the “hard-hitter,” and swung his bat knowingly. King realized that here was foeman worthy of steel, and was accordingly careful.

But Hopkins was desperate. He found the second ball, and it went flying toward center-field. Bissell failed to reach it in time to get his hands on it before it struck the ground, and Hopkins gained second, Condit going to third. Morgan followed with a slow grounder toward King. King fielded it to first too late, after making sure that Condit was not trying to score, and the bases were full. A home run would win for Robinson! A two-base hit would tie the score!

The brown banners flaunted and gyrated in the air, throwing strange dancing silhouettes upon the turf. The shadow of the western stand had lengthened across the infield. Back of the stand the sky was aglow with orange, while toward the village a golden haze filled the air.

The throng at large was silent, intense, expectant. Yet here and there sections of the throng still shouted, and back of the dense wall of spectators on the Robinson side of the field the band was playing. A cheer, undismayed yet faint, ran along the ranks of the Erskine supporters. It is hard to shout when your heart is throbbing away up in your throat. Devlin went to bat, his determined chin thrust forth and his sharp eyes sparkling from between half-closed lids as he watched the pitcher. Joe Perkins half knelt behind him and held a big mitten invitingly open on his left knee.

“Steady, fellows!” he called cheerfully. “Play for the plate!”

His voice rang true, with never a quiver in it. Yet now and then his heart raced and thumped for an instant in a way that turned him half faint. Despite the tiny beads of perspiration that trickled down his face, he was livid, and the fingers in the hot leathern mit trembled and twitched. If he could keep those brown-legged players from crossing the plate the game was won for Erskine and his labors and hopes were crowned with success. If! He groaned as he thought of all that might happen ere the third man was put out. For the first time during the contest he was nervous; for the first time almost in memory he was frightened through and through. Then his gaze swept over the field and he saw Motter at first carelessly flipping a pebble across the grass, Weatherby alert and impatient at second, Northup shading his eyes with his hand as he stood motionless in right-field, Knox calling blithely to King as he slapped his hands together, and beyond, Bissell and Lowe, their figures throwing long, slanting shadows across the turf. Then King’s left hand wandered carelessly across his forehead, his arms shot up, and Joe, reaching out, drew in the first delivery.

“Strike,” droned the umpire.

Joe’s fright passed with the settling of the sphere in his hands. The blood crept back into his cheeks and courage into his heart. Returning the ball, he eased his mask, thumped his hands together, and called confidently to King.

“That’s the eye, Greg; once more!”

Erskine applauded grandly. Then followed two balls. The coaches were shouting like maniacs and the runners were set, like sprinters on the mark, ready to spring into flight on the instant. Joe signaled a drop. It came, and Devlin tried and missed.

“Strike two,” droned the little umpire.

Again the supporters of the Purple shouted and waved their colors against the evening sky. King swept a glance about the bases, unmindful of the coachers’ taunts, settled himself once more, and pitched. Devlin’s body moved quickly forward, ball and bat met squarely, Devlin raced toward first, and the runners on the bases sprang away.

Out by second, Jack, on his toes, alert and ready for anything, heard the crack of bat against ball, and instinctively ran toward base. Hopkins, head down, started like a flash toward third. Then Jack’s eyes found the ball. It was speeding toward him, straight, swift and well over his head. He stopped in his tracks a foot or two behind the base-line, threw his hands high into the air, put his weight on to his toes, and then sprang straight upward until there was a good two feet between him and the turf. To the excited watchers it seemed that for an instant he hung there suspended, a lithe, slim figure against the golden sunset haze. Then the ball stung his hands, the throng broke into confused shouting, and —

“Back! Back!” shrieked the coaches.

The runners turned in their tracks and scuttled for the bases they had left like rabbits for their burrows. Jack, the ball securely clutched, reached second in two strides, and then, with a lightning survey of the situation, threw straight and sure to Billings at third. Condit, arrested ten feet from the plate by the coaches’ warnings, had doubled back, and now was racing desperately for third base and safety. Six feet from the bag he launched himself forward, arms outstretched. A trailing cloud of red dust arose into the still air, and the ball thumped into the baseman’s hands. The little fat umpire swung his hand circling toward the bases.

“Game!” he said.

The long ranks broke like waves, and the players were engulfed, then caught and tossed to the surface. Jack, rocking perilously about on the shoulders of comrades, looked dazedly yet happily down over a sea of waving purple banners and upraised, excited faces, while against his ears beat the thunderous refrain of “Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!”

Two-Base Hits – Wood, Hopkins. Triple Play – Weatherby to Billings. Bases on Balls – Off Gilberth, 3; Off Vose, 2; Off King, 1. Hit by Pitched Ball – Northup (2), Condit. Struck Out – By Gilberth, 8; By King, 3; By Vose, 13. Sacrifice Hits – Knox, Richman, Regan. Umpire – Cantrell. Time of Game – 2.40. Attendance – 4,000.

CHAPTER XXIV
WEATHERBY’S INNING

“Good morning, Mr. Tidball!”

Anthony, making his way briskly down Main Street, raised his head at the greeting, and glanced across the street. Professor White, immaculate in his Sunday attire of black frock coat, gray trousers, and silk hat, was picking his way gingerly between the little puddles left by the night’s shower. Anthony returned the salutation, and waited for the other to join him. Then they went on together down the quiet street in the shade of the elms. The village seemed deserted. It was an hour after noon, and staid, respectable Centerport was dining on all the indigestible luxuries that comprise the New England Sunday dinner. As for the college – well, the college was at the depot awaiting the arrival of the 2.12 train.

“Going down to welcome the victors?” asked the professor gaily.

“Yes,” answered Anthony. “And I guess you are too. Sort of late, aren’t we?”

He produced his big gold watch, removed it tenderly from its pouch, and saw that it announced eight minutes after the hour. The professor nodded, and they mended their pace.

“You didn’t go down, did you?” asked the latter.

“No, I wanted to, but couldn’t afford it. But we got the news at Butler’s by innings. We had quite a celebration all to ourselves before the rest of you got home.”

“Didn’t keep you from taking a hand in the bonfire last night, though, did it?” laughed the professor.

“No, I guess every one went out to the field. It must have been an interesting game, professor.”

“It was. But it was rather conducive to heart-disease toward the end. We came pretty near to being outplayed, and a good deal nearer to being beaten. When Robinson had the bases full in the ninth and their left-fielder rapped out that liner – well, I shut my eyes and held my breath! I didn’t see Weatherby make his catch; when I looked he was throwing to third. Well, it was great, simply great!”

“Yes, but I didn’t quite understand what it was Jack did. If he hadn’t caught the ball the other chaps would have made three runs, isn’t that it?”

“Well, two runs anyway, three probably; you see, the bases were full, and that hit was good for a two-bagger, I think, if Weatherby hadn’t got his hands on it. It was a hot one, too, and ’way over his head. As it was, he put out the batsman by catching the ball, tagged second before the runner from that base could get back, and then threw to third and put out the man there. You see, a runner is required to hold his base until a fly has either been caught or has touched the ground. Well, Robinson thought Devlin’s hit was a safe one; it surely looked like it; and every one ran. Then when Weatherby caught it they had to get back to their bases; but they couldn’t. Condit was almost home. It was very pretty. Triple plays like that have been made before, but they don’t happen very often. And then the difficulty of Weatherby’s catch added to the brilliancy of the thing. Well, he’ll be a hero now as long as yesterday’s game is remembered.”

“I’m mighty glad,” said Anthony quietly. “Jack’s had sort of a hard time of it, take it all ’round. I’m glad things look better for next year.”

“Oh, he can have pretty near anything he wants after this,” laughed the professor. “I’m quite as well pleased as you are, Tidball. There’s one thing, however – ” He hesitated. “We can’t get around the fact that Weatherby’s been largely to blame for his own unhappiness, Tidball. We’re both friends of his, and we can afford to recognize the truth. It was his duty, to himself and more especially to others, to put himself right. He should have explained why he apparently made no effort to go to the rescue of that boy in the river. It looked bad; I saw the whole thing, and to all appearances it was just a case of cowardice. I was mistaken; and I said what was in my mind, which was a still greater mistake. But don’t you see, Tidball, he should have spoken up and said that he couldn’t swim. None would have blamed him then. He had no right to allow others to misjudge him. Then, too, his attitude wasn’t of the kind to attract friends to him. From what I can make out he appears to have taken umbrage because the fellows didn’t seek him and make his acquaintance when he first came, and subsequently repelled every advance by his apparent indifference and self-sufficiency. It was – unfortunate.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right. But I can’t altogether blame Jack, for I know just how sensitive he is. Sometime he’ll get over it, but it’s something you can’t change at once. Wasn’t that the whistle?”

“I didn’t hear anything, but if you like we’ll sprint a bit.”

And they did, reaching the station just as the train rolled in, and the victorious baseball team and attendants descended into the dense throng of students to an accompaniment of wild cheers. For a moment the players were swallowed from sight. Then they came into view again on the shoulders of privileged friends, and were borne to the three hacks that were to take them in triumph up to the college. Jack caught a brief glimpse of Anthony’s tall form as he was borne, swaying and bobbing, across the platform, and waved a hand to him. Then, with the cheering crowd jostling and shoving about the carriages, the journey was begun.

Jack found himself in the second of the hacks, sandwiched between Billings and Knox. Facing them, on the front seat, sat King, Motter, and Showell. As they turned into the Square, the horses prancing excitedly because of the crowd and the noise, Jack caught a glimpse of the carriage ahead and of Joe Perkins leaning out to shake hands with the nearest of his admirers. There was no attempt at conversation between Jack and his companions. Even had the tumult allowed it they were all too sleepy and tired to talk much.

Training had ended for the season with the ending of the game. They had remained in Collegetown as Robinson’s guests, and had been dined, and, later, had attended a performance at the little Opera House in company with their hosts. After that they had returned to the hotel, assembled in Joe’s room, and chosen a new captain. The honor had fallen to King. There had been no dissenting voice. King, although only a junior next year, was already a veteran player, having captained his school team before coming to Erskine, and having played two years with the varsity. Jack was pleased. He liked King better than any of the fellows who would be eligible for the next year’s nine. And King, he believed, liked him.

Jack forgot the cheers and the singing and the enthusiastic throngs that filled the sidewalks and almost surrounded the carriage, and closing his eyes, leaned back and gave himself over to thought. In three days the term would come to an end, and he would go home for the summer, a summer which promised to be one of the pleasantest of his life. Anthony was to visit him in July for a week, and later, if all went well, he was to spend a few days in Jonesboro, and finish his natational education with surf bathing. Then, in September, Erskine once more. But what a difference there would be! He would return to college to find fellows not merely willing but eager to claim his acquaintance, to call him friend. The stigma of cowardice would no longer be placed upon him; rather he would be looked upon as a hero, as the one who had saved the college from defeat.

Already he had tasted the intoxicating draft of popularity. Ever since the crowd had poured on to the field the day before he had never for an instant been allowed to forget that the college looked upon him as one whom it was a pleasure to honor. The time when he had read “Coward!” in each averted face seemed very dim and far. And yet the vindication of which he had dreamed then, a vindication of his physical courage, had not come. Well, perhaps next year —

He came to earth with a start. King had leaped to his feet, and was staring excitedly down the street. The tumult had changed from joyous cheers to cries of alarm. The crowd about the carriage was frantically struggling toward the sidewalks and above its voice sounded the pounding of hoofs on the hard road. Jack turned and looked. Behind them, sweeping down the narrow street between the fleeing throngs, swayed the third hack, the horses, frightened beyond control, plunging forward with outstretched heads. On the box the driver tugged vainly at the lines and shouted warnings to the crowd. A moment or two and a collision was inevitable.

Their own driver had heard and seen; the hack sprang forward, and King tumbled into Jack’s arms. At the same instant Showell struggled to his feet with pale, drawn face, and, with an inarticulate groan of terror, threw open the carriage door and leaped blindly into the road. Over and over he rolled in the path of the oncoming team. Jack pushed King from him, and in a moment was balancing himself on the sill, clinging to the woodwork beside him. Some one strove to get by him, and he pushed him back.

“Stay where you are,” he shouted.

Then he jumped.

As he did so he saw dimly the crowd crushing back against the shops, panic-stricken, struggling for safety. He landed and kept his feet, and even before the momentum had passed had swung himself about, and was racing back down the street toward the motionless form of Showell and the plunging horses. As he ran there was no fear in his heart; rather an exultant consciousness of power; here was the opportunity to wipe out forever the stigma of cowardice.

“It’s my inning at last!” he thought gladly.

If it has taken long in the telling, yet in the doing it was the matter of a moment. He reached the inert body of Showell, and, with desperate strength, sent it rolling toward the sidewalk. Then the horses were upon him. With a gasp for breath he leaped forward, arms outstretched, as it seemed into the path of death.

But brief as had been his moment of preparation, he had not misjudged. His clutching hands caught at rein and mane, and he was swept off his feet and borne onward. Then his left hand found a place beside the right, and with all his weight back of the bit and the horse’s hoofs grazing his legs at every plunge, he clung there desperately with closed eyes. For an instant there was no diminishment of the pace; then the horse’s head came down, and Jack’s feet again touched earth. Plunge after plunge followed; a confusion of cries and cheers filled his ears; the team veered to the left, and his feet felt the sidewalk beneath them. There was a crash as the heavy pole splintered against one of the granite posts of the college fence, and Jack, striking violently against something that drove the last breath from his body, loosed his hold and fell backward into darkness.