“I shouldn’t wonder,” Bert laughed. “I, for one, have never seen his equal, and never expect to again.”
“What’s that?” Tom demanded, sharply, as a cry of terror rent the air. “Let’s find out.”
“It sounded further down the stream, near the mill. Come on, fellows. Hurry!” and Bert instinctively took command, as he always did in cases of emergency.
As the boys burst through the bushes further down, the cry came again, a wild call for help, and they saw a white clad figure struggling desperately against the force of the current.
With a shout of encouragement Bert plunged into the water, and with long, powerful strokes was nearing the spot where the girl had disappeared. Once more the figure rose to the surface, but Bert knew it was for the last time. The girl was terribly close to the sluice, and as Bert swam he felt the tug of the current.
Just as the girl was about to go under, Bert caught her dress and pulled her to the surface. But how, how, could he swim with his burden against the current to the bank, which seemed to him a hundred miles off!
With resolute courage he mustered his strength and began the struggle with that merciless current. One stroke, two, three,—surely he was gaining, and a great wave of joy and hope welled up in his heart. Hemustmake it, for not only was his life at stake, but the life of the young girl dependent upon his success. But it became harder and harder to make headway, and finally he realized that he was barely holding his own—thathe had to exert all his remaining strength to prevent them both from being drawn through the sluice to a cruel death below.
Desperately he strove to push against that mighty wall of water, that, like some merciless giant, was forcing him and his helpless burden, inch by inch, to destruction. In the agony of his soul a great cry of despair broke from his lips. “It will all be over soon,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t care so much for myself, but the girl,” and he looked down at the pale face and dark, tangled hair of the girl he was giving his life to save. They were very, very close to the entrance of the sluice now, and nearing it more swiftly every moment. But what was that black object coming toward them so rapidly?
“Bert, Bert, keep up your courage. I’m coming!” cried Dick’s voice. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Just a minute, old fellow.”
Oh, could Dick reach them in time. Bert could only pray for strength to hold on for a few minutes. He was very near them now, and shouting encouragement at every stroke. Now he was beside them, and had taken the girl from Bert’s nerveless grasp. “Here, take this rope, old fellow,” he cried, “put it over your head, quick. That’s the way. Now let the fellows on shore pull you in.”
Bert wondered afterward why he had not feltany great exultation at his sudden and almost miraculous deliverance. As it was, only a great feeling of weariness settled down upon him, and he wanted to sleep—sleep. Then the sky came down to meet the earth, and everything went black before his eyes.
“Bert, dear old Bert, wake up. You’re safe. You’re safe. Don’t you hear me, old fellow?” a voice at a great distance was saying, and Bert opened uncomprehending eyes on a strange world.
“Hello, fellows,” he said, with the ghost of his old smile. “Came pretty near to ‘shuffling off this mortal coil,’ didn’t I? Where is——” he asked, looking around, inquiringly.
“The girl you so bravely rescued?” came a sweet voice behind him. “And who never, never can repay you for what you have done to-day if she lives forever?”
With the assistance of his friends Bert got to his feet and faced the girl who had so nearly gone to her death with him. For the first time in his life he felt embarrassed.
“Please don’t thank me,” he said; “I’m repaid a thousandfold when I see you standing there safe. It might so easily have been the other way,” and he shuddered at the thought.
Before the girl could answer, another figurestrode forth and grasped our hero’s hand in both of his.
“Professor Davis,” Bert exclaimed, as he recognized one of the college professors.
“Yes, it’s Mr. Davis, Bert, and he owes you a debt of gratitude he can never cancel. Bert, it was my daughter you rescued from a hideous death to-day, and, dear boy, from this day, you can count on me for anything in the world.”
“Thank you, Professor; I don’t deserve all this——”
“Yes, you do, my boy—every bit of it and more, and now,” he added, seeing that the strain was telling on Bert, “I think you, Dick, and Tom had better get Bert home as quickly as you can. This daughter of mine insisted on staying until you revived, but I guess she will excuse you, now. I’d ask you to take supper with us to-night, but I know that what you most need is rest. It is only a pleasure deferred, however.”
As they turned to go, the girl held out her hands to Tom and Dick, and lastly to Bert. “I am very, very grateful,” she said, softly.
“And I am very, very grateful that I have been given a chance to serve you,” he answered, and watched her disappear with her father through the bushes.
Then he turned to Dick and Tom. “You fellows deserve more credit than I, a thousandtimes more,” he said, in a voice that was a trifle husky.
“Huh,” said Tom, “all that I did was to run to the nearest house for a rope, and all Dick did was to hand you the rope, while Professor Davis and I hauled you in.”
“Yes, that’s all,” Bert repeated, softly, “that’s all.”
“Well, come on, Bert, it’s time you got back to college. I guess you’re about all in,” said Dick, putting his arm through Bert’s and starting off in the direction of the college.
“Say, you forgot something,” Tom said, suddenly. “You forgot all about old Pete.”
“So we did,” Dick exclaimed; “suppose you go and get the fish and poles, if they are still there, and join us at the crossing.”
And they did meet at the crossing, and jogged along home, their bodies tired, but their hearts at rest, while their friendship was welded still more strongly by one other experience, shared in common.
It was a rather gloomy morning on which the team started for the college where they were to play one of the most important games of the series. If they won, they would eliminate the Grays and have only to contend with the Maroons; if they lost, all their splendid work of the season might have gone for nought.
They were a sober bunch, therefore, as they gathered at the railway station to await their train. There was little of the usual joking and horse play to be seen, but this may have been partly due to the depressing state of the weather. As the train came in sight, however, they chirked up somewhat at the thought of having something to occupy their minds, and piled aboard their special car in a little more cheerful mood. A dense, clammy fog hung low over the ground, and it was impossible to see more than a hundred feet or so into it in any direction.
The town in which they were to play to-day was almost a hundred miles distant, and so theyhad a considerable journey ahead of them. The train was a little behind time, and was making extra speed in an effort to catch up with its schedule. They had traversed several miles, and were relieving the monotony of the journey with jokes and riddles. As they passed over a particularly high trestle, and looked down into the dizzy void below, Sterling, the second baseman, said:
“Say, fellows, this trestle reminds me of a story I heard a little while ago. If somebody would beg me to real hard, I might be induced to tell it to you.”
“Go ahead!” “Shoot!” “Let’s hear it!” came a chorus of supplication, and Sterling said, “Well, if you insist, I suppose I will have to tell it to you. The scene of this thrilling anecdote is laid in the Far West, when it was much wilder and woollier than it is at present. It seems that two horse thieves had been captured by a band of ‘vigilantes,’ and after a trial notable for its brevity and lack of hampering formalities, they were both sentenced to be hanged. It was in a country in which there were no trees worthy of the name, and the only available place for the execution within several miles was a high railroad bridge. To this, accordingly, the ‘vigilantes’ conducted their prisoners, one of whom was a Swede and the other of Irish persuasion. The two were forced to draw lots to see which one should behanged first, and, as it turned out, the Swede drew the short straw, and so was pronounced the first victim of justice.
“The noose of a stout lariat was fastened around his neck, and when everything was ready he was shoved off the bridge. As the strain of his weight came on the rope, however, the knot of the noose became untied, and the Swede fell to the rushing river below. He was not hurt much, and those on the bridge saw him swim to the bank and scramble ashore. There was no way of getting at him, so the lynchers had to satisfy themselves with many and varied oaths. The Irishman, of course, had watched the proceeding in a fascinated manner, and as the cowboys tied the rope around his neck, he said, in an imploring voice, ‘For Hivin’s sake, byes, tie the rope tight this time, for I can’t swim a stroke.’”
Hearty laughter greeted Sterling’s narrative, and the boys felt in better spirits after it.
“That reminds me of a story I heard once,” began Hinsdale. “It was when I was on a visit to my uncle’s ranch in Montana, and——”
But he was interrupted by a crash that sounded as though the end of the world had come, and the car in which they were riding reared up in the air like a bucking horse. It rose almost to a perpendicular position, and then crashed overon its side. It scraped along a few rods in this position, and then came to a grinding halt.
For a few seconds there was silence, and then a pandemonium of muffled screams and cries broke forth. Bert’s voice was the first to be heard in their car, and it inquired, anxiously, “Where are you, Dick, Tom, and the rest of you? Are you alive yet? Here, you, get off my neck, will you, and give me a chance to breathe.”
There was a general scramble and struggle among the debris, and soon one boy after another climbed and crawled through the broken windows until finally they all stood accounted for. Many had painful scratches and bruises, but none were hurt at all seriously. Reddy, the trainer, drew a sigh of relief. “Thank Heaven for its mercies,” said he, fervently, and then, “Well, me lads, get a wiggle on, and we’ll see if everybody else has been as lucky as we have. From the looks of things up forward there, it’s more than I dare hope.”
The front part of the train, which had sustained the greatest shock of the collision, was indeed a terrible spectacle. Running full speed, the two trains had crashed into each other out of the fog before their engineers had fairly realized that anything was amiss. The locomotives were practically demolished, and one huge Mogul lay on its side beside the roadbed, steam still hissingfrom its broken pipes. The other engine still was on the rails, but its entire front had been demolished, and it was a total wreck. The coaches immediately back of the locomotives had been driven on by the momentum of the cars back of them, and had been partly telescoped; that is, the cars in the rear had plowed half way through before their progress was checked. To add to the horror of the scene, thin red flames were licking up from the wreckage, probably started by the coals from the engine. Many of the passengers were unable to extricate themselves from the wreckage, being pinned down by beams and other heavy articles. Their cries and supplications to be saved were pitiful as they saw the hungry flames gathering headway and eating their way toward them, and Reddy turned fiercely to the horror-stricken boys. “Here, what are ye standing around for?” he snarled. “Git back to our car and get out the axes and fire extinguishers there. You can get at them if you try. Come on; hurry!” and the trainer sprinted back toward the rear cars, followed in a body by the willing and eager boys. In less time than it takes to tell it, they returned, some with axes and some with extinguishers. The latter could make little progress against the flames, however, which by now had gained considerable headway, so the boys, assisted by such other of the passengers who werein a position to do so, proceeded to chop and dig their way to the imprisoned unfortunates. Person after person they dragged out in this manner, until they had rescued all but one man.
He was pinned down by a timber that had all the weight of one of the heavy trucks on it, and it seemed impossible that they could get him out before the fire got to him. Already they could feel its intense heat as they chopped and pulled, wrenched and lifted, in a frenzy of haste. Nearer and nearer crept the all-embracing fire, until eyebrows and hair began to singe with the deadly heat, and they were forced to work in relays, relieving each other every minute or so.
“For God’s sake, if you can’t get me out of here before the fire reaches me, kill me,” pleaded the unfortunate prisoner, “don’t let me roast here by degrees!”
“No danger of that,” gasped Bert, as he swung a huge timber aside that under ordinary circumstances he would have been unable even to move. “We’ll have you out in a jiffy, now.”
“Come on boys, we’ve got to move this truck,” yelled Reddy. “Here, everybody get hold on this side, and when I say pull,pullfor your lives! Now! get hold! Ready?”
“Yes!” they gasped between set teeth.
“Pull!” fairly screamed Reddy, and every man and boy grasping the obstinate mass oftwisted metal put every ounce of strength in his body into one supreme effort. The mass swayed, gave, and then toppled back where it had been before!
“Don’t give up!” yelled Bert, frantically, as he saw some of the men release their hold and turn away, evidently despairing of accomplishing their object. “Try it again! For God’s sake remember you’re men, and try again! It’s a human life that’s at stake!”
Thus adjured, they returned to the task, and at the signal from Reddy, wrenched and tore frantically at the inert mass that appeared to mock their puny efforts.
“Keep it up, keep it up!” gritted Reddy. Slowly but surely, every muscle straining to its utmost and threatening to snap under the terrific strain, they raised the heavy truck, and with one last mad heave and pull sent it toppling down the railroad embankment.
With a wild yell they fell upon the few light timbers lying between them and the imprisoned man, and soon had him stretched out safely beside the track. On examination it proved that he had an arm wrenched and several minor injuries, but nothing fatal.
“Nothing I can say will express half the gratitude I feel toward you young men,” he said, smiling weakly up into the faces of the boys groupedabout him, “you have saved me from a horrible death, and I will never forget it.”
While waiting for the arrival of the wrecking crew and a doctor, the rescued man had considerable further talk with the members of the team, and they learned, much to their surprise, that he was an alumnus of their college. Their pleasure at this discovery was very great, and that of the stranger seemed little less.
“The old college has done me a whole lot of good, all through my life,” he said, “but never as much as it did to-day, through her baseball team. You will hear further from me, young men.”
“Oh, it was nothing much to do,” deprecated Bert, “we did the only thing there was to be done under the circumstances, and that was all there was to it!”
“Not a bit of it,” insisted the gentleman. “Why, just take a look at your faces. You are all as red as though you had been boiled, and your eyebrows are singed. I declare, anybody looking at us would think that you had had a good deal harder time of it than I had.”
And nothing the boys could say would induce him to alter his opinion of their heroism in the slightest degree.
Soon they heard a whistle far down the track, and shortly afterward the wrecking train hove inview. It consisted, besides the locomotive and tender, of a tool car, in which were stored all kinds of instruments, jacks, etc., that could possibly be required, and a flat car on which a sturdy swinging crane was mounted. The railroad company had also sent several physicians, who were soon busily engaged in taking proper care of the injured.
In the meantime, the crew of the wrecking train, headed by a burly foreman, got in strenuous action, and the boys marveled at the quick and workmanlike manner in which they proceeded to clear the line. As is the case with all wrecking crews, their orders were to clear the road for traffic in the shortest time regardless of expense. The time lost in trying to save, for instance, the remains of a locomotive or car for future use, would have been much more valuable than either.
A gang of Italians were set to work clearing off the lighter portion of the wreckage, and the wrecking crew proper proceeded to get chains under the locomotive that remained on the tracks. It was so twisted and bent that not one of its wheels would even turn, so it was impossible to tow it away. The only solution of the problem, then, was to lift it off the track. After the crew had placed and fastened the chains to the satisfaction of the foreman, who accompanied theprocess with a string of weird oaths, the signal was given to the man operating the steam crane to “hoist away.”
The strong engine attached to the massive steel crane began to whirr, and slowly the great mass of the locomotive rose, inch by inch, into the air. When the front part was entirely clear of the tracks, the operator touched another lever, and the crane swung outward, carrying the huge locomotive with it as a child might play with a toy. It was a revelation of the unlimited might of that powerful monster, steam.
Further and further swung the crane, until the locomotive was at right angles to the track, with its nose overhanging the embankment. Then, with the foreman carefully directing every movement with uplifted hand and caustic voice, the locomotive was lowered gently down the embankment, partly sliding and partly supported by the huge chain, every link of which was almost a foot long.
In speaking of this chain afterward one of the boys said he wished he had stolen it so that he might wear it as a watch-chain.
The engine finally came to rest at the foot of the incline, and the chain was slackened and cast off. Then the crane took the next car in hand, and went through much the same process with it. Car after car was slid down the embankment,and in an incredibly short time the roadway was cleared of wreckage. Then it was seen that several rails had been ripped up, but these were quickly replaced by others from racks built along the right of way, such as the reader has no doubt often seen.
In a little over an hour from the time the wrecking crew came on the scene the last bolt on the rail connecting plates had been tightened, and the track was ready again for traffic.
“Gee,” exclaimed Tom, “that was quick work, for fair. Why, if anybody had asked me, I would have said that no train would have been able to use this roadway for at least a day. That crew knows its business, and no mistake.”
“They sure do,” agreed Dick, “they cleared things up in jig time. But it only shows what can be done when you go about it in the right way.”
“I only wish we had had that crane when we were trying to lift the truck up,” said the trainer, who had sauntered up to the group. “It wouldn’t have been any trick at all with that little pocket instrument.”
“No,” laughed Bert. “I think that in the future I will carry one around with me in case of emergencies. You don’t know when it might come in handy.”
“Great head, great head,” approved Dick, solemnly, and then they both laughed heartily,and the others joined in. After their recent narrow escape from death, life seemed a very pleasant and jolly thing.
But suddenly Bert’s face sobered. “How the dickens are we going to get to the game in time?” he inquired. “The service is all tied up, and it will be hours and hours before we can get there.”
This was indeed a problem, and there seemed to be no solution. There was no other railroad running within twenty miles of this one, and while a trolley line connecting the towns was building, it had not as yet been completed. As Tom expressed it, “they were up against it good and plenty.”
While they were discussing the problem, and someone had despairingly suggested that they walk, Mr. Clarke, the gentleman whom the boys had rescued from the wreck, strolled up, with his arm neatly done up in a sling. His face looked pale and drawn, but aside from the wrenched arm he appeared none the worse for his harrowing experience.
When informed of the problem facing the team, he appeared nonplussed at first, but then his face lightened up.
“My home isn’t more than a mile from here,” he said, “and I have recently bought a large seven-passenger automobile. You could all packinto that without much trouble, and there is a fine macadam road leading from within a few blocks of my house to the town for which you are bound. But there,” and his face clouded over, “I forgot. I discharged my chauffeur the other day, and I have not had time as yet to engage another. I don’t know whom I could get to drive the car. I can’t do it on account of my broken arm.”
“Shucks, that’s too bad,” said Reddy, in a disappointed tone, “that would be just the thing, if we only had someone to run it. That’s what I call tough luck. I guess there’s no game for us to-day, boys, unless we think of something else.”
But here Bert spoke up. “If Mr. Clarke wouldn’t be afraid to trust the car to me,” he said, “I know how to drive, and I can promise we will take the best care of it. I know that car fore and aft, from radiator to taillight.”
“Why, certainly, go as far as you like,” said Mr. Clarke, heartily. “If you are sure you can handle it I will be only too glad to let you have it. Nothing I can do will repay a thousandth part of what I owe you boys.”
“You’re sure you’re capable of handling a car, are you, Wilson?” inquired the trainer, with a searching look. “I don’t want to take a chance on getting mixed up in any more wrecks to-day. The one we’ve had already will satisfy me for some time to come.”
“Watch me,” was all Bert said, but Dick and Tom both chimed in indignantly, “I guess you don’t know whom we have with us,” said Tom, “why, Bert has forgotten more about automobiles than I ever knew, and I’m no slouch at that game.”
“That’s right,” confirmed Dick. “Bert’s some demon chauffeur, Reddy. Believe me, we’ll have to move some, too, if we expect to get to D—— in time for the game. Why!” he exclaimed, glancing at his watch, “it’s after one now, and we’re due to be at the grounds at 2:30. How far is it, Mr. Clarke, from your house to D——?”
Mr. Clarke calculated a moment, and then said, “Why, I guess it must be from fifty to fifty-five miles. You’ll have to burn up the road to get there in anything like time,” he said, and glanced quizzically at Bert.
“That’s easy,” returned the latter, “a car like yours ought to be capable of seventy miles an hour in a pinch.”
Mr. Clarke nodded his head. “More than that,” he said, “but be careful how you try any stunts like seventy miles an hour. I don’t care about the car, but I don’t want the old college to be without a baseball team owing to an automobile smashup.”
“Never fear,” said Bert, confidently. “Youmay be sure I will take no unnecessary chances. I don’t feel as though I wanted to die yet awhile.”
“All right,” said Mr. Clarke, and proceeded to give them directions on the shortest way to reach his home. When he had finished, Reddy sang out, “All right, boys, let’s get a move on. Double quick now! We haven’t a minute to lose.”
Accordingly the whole team started off at a swinging trot, and it was not long before Mr. Clarke’s handsome residence came into view. Mr. Clarke had given them a note, which they presented to his wife, who met them at the door. She was much agitated at the news contained therein, but, after a few anxious questions, proceeded to show them where the machine was located, and gave them the key to the garage. They raced down a long avenue of stately trees, and soon came to the commodious stone garage. Reddy unlocked the doors, and swung them wide.
“Gee, what a machine,” breathed Bert, and stood a moment in mute admiration. The automobile was of the very latest pattern, and was the finest product of an eminent maker. The sun sparkled on its polished enamel and brass work. But Bert had no eyes for these details. He raised the hood and carefully inspected the engine. Then he peered into the gasoline and oil tanks, and found both plentifully supplied.
“All right,” he announced, after this inspection. “Pile in someway, and we’ll get a move on. What time is it, Tom?”
“Just twenty-five minutes of two,” announced Tom, after consulting his watch. “I hope we don’t get arrested for speeding, that’s all. This reminds me of the old ‘Red Scout’ days, doesn’t it you, Dick?”
“It sure does,” agreed the latter, with a reminiscent smile. “We’ll have to go mighty fast to break the records we made then, won’t we, old sock?” slapping Bert on the shoulder.
“That’s what,” agreed Bert, as he cranked the motor.
The big engine coughed once or twice, and then settled down into a contented purring. Bert threw in the reverse and backed out of the garage. He handled the big car with practised hands, and Reddy, who had been watching him carefully, drew a sigh of relief. “I guess he knows his business, all right,” he reflected, and settled back on the luxurious cushions of the tonneau. The car was packed pretty solidly, you may be sure, and everyone seated on the cushions proper had somebody else perched on his lap. This did not matter, however, and everybody was too excited to feel uncomfortable.
As they passed the porch, they stopped, and Mrs. Clarke, who had been waiting to see themoff, gave Bert directions on how to find the main road. “Follow the road in front of the house due south for about half or three-quarters of a mile,” she said, “and then turn to your left on the broad, macadam road that you will see at about this point. That will take you without a break to D——. Be careful of that car, though,” she said to Bert, “I’m almost afraid of it, it’s so very powerful.”
“It will need all its power to-day,” said Bert, smiling, and they all said good-bye to Mrs. Clarke. Then Bert slipped in the clutch, and the big car glided smoothly out on the road in front of the house, and in a very short time they came to the main road of which Mrs. Clarke had spoken.
“Now, Bert, let her rip,” said Dick, who was in the seat beside our hero. Bert did.
Little by little he opened the throttle till the great machine was rushing along the smooth road at terrific speed. Faster and faster they flew. The wind whistled in their ears, and all who were not holding on to their caps lost them. There was no time to stop for such a trivial item, and indeed nobody even thought of such a thing. To get to the game, that was the main thing. Also, the lust of speed had entered their hearts, and while they felt horribly afraid at the frightful pace, there was a certain mad pleasure in it, too.The speedometer needle crept up and up, till it touched the sixty-mile-an-hour mark. Reddy wanted to tell Bert to slacken speed, but feared that the boys would think he was “scared,” so said nothing. Bert’s heart thrilled, and the blood pounded madly through his veins. His very soul called for speed, speed! and he gradually opened the throttle until it would go no further. The great car responded nobly, and strained madly ahead. The whirring gears hummed a strident tune, and the explosions from the now open muffler sounded in an unbroken roar. The passengers in the machine grew dizzy, and some were forced to close their eyes to protect them from the rushing, tearing wind. The fields on both sides streaked away in back of them like a vari-colored ribbon, and the gray road seemed leaping up to meet them. The speedometer hand pointed to eighty miles an hour, and now there was a long decline in front of them. The boys thought that then Bert would surely reduce the power somewhat, but apparently no such thought entered his mind. Down the long slope they swooped, and then—What was that in front of them, that they were approaching at such terrific speed? At a glance Bert saw that it consisted of two farm wagons traveling along toward them at a snail’s pace, their drivers engaged in talk, and oblivious ofthe road in front of them. Bert touched the siren lever, and a wild shriek burst from the tortured siren. The drivers gave one startled glance at the flying demon approaching them, and then started to draw up their horses to opposite sides of the road. They seemed fairly to crawl and Bert felt an awful contraction of his heart. What if they could not make it? He knew that it would have been folly to apply the brakes at the terrific speed at which they were traveling, and his only chance lay in going between the two wagons.
Slowly—slowly—the wagons drew over to the side of the road, and Bert calculated the distance with straining eyes. His hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles stood out white and tense.
Now they were upon the wagons—and through! A vision of rearing horses, excited, gesticulating drivers—and they were through, with a scant half foot to spare on either side.
A deep sigh went up from the passengers in the car, and tense muscles were relaxed. Gradually, little by little, Bert reduced the speed until they were traveling at a mere forty miles an hour, which seemed quiet, safe and slow, after their recent hair-raising pace. Reddy pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration.
“We looked death in the face that time,” he declared, gravely. “I never expected to get out of that corner alive. If we had hit one of those wagons, it would have been all up with us. For heaven’s sake, Wilson, take it a little easier in the future, will you? I don’t want to decorate a marble slab in the morgue just yet awhile.”
Tom pulled out his watch, and found that it was after two o’clock. “We can’t be far from the town now,” he declared. “I’ll bet that’s it, where you see the steeple over there in the distance.”
“That’s what it is,” chimed in several of the others, who had been to the town before; “we’ll get there with time to spare.”
The intervening mile or so was covered in a jiffy, and the car entered the town. Almost immediately they were recognized by some in the crowd, and were greeted with cheers. A couple of young fellows whom they knew jumped up on the running-board as Bert slowed down for them.
“Gee,” said one, “there’s some class to you fellows, all right, all right. It isn’t every baseball team that can travel around the country in a giddy buzz wagon like the one you have there. Who belongs to it, anyway?”
“Oh, it’s too long a story to tell now,” said the trainer. “We’ll tell you all about it afterthe game. It’s about time we were starting in to practise a little.”
They soon arrived at the grounds, and were greeted by an ovation. The news of the wreck had just been telegraphed in, and the spectators had been a sorely disappointed lot until the arrival of the car bearing the Blues. The news had spread over the field, and some of the spectators had started to leave, thinking that, of course, there would be no game.
These soon returned, however, and settled down to see the struggle.
It would seem as though the Blues would have little energy left after such an exciting day as they had passed through, but such is the wonderful elasticity and recuperative powers of youth, that they played one of the snappiest games of the season, and after a hotly contested fight won out by a score of four to two.
As they returned to the clubhouse after the game, they were surprised beyond measure to see Mr. Clarke waiting for them. He greeted them with a smile, and shook hands all around with his uninjured arm.
“I caught the first train that went through,” he explained, “and got here in time to see the last inning. You fellows put up a cracker-jack game, and I think you are an honor to the old college. It was a wonder you did not lose.After what you have been through to-day I should not have been a bit surprised or disappointed.”
They thanked him for his kind speech, and then nothing would do but that they must have supper with him at the most expensive hotel in town. Needless to say, this meal was done ample justice, and when Mr. Clarke informed them that he had hired rooms for them for the night the announcement was greeted with a cheer.
“I have telegraphed home, so nobody will be worried about you,” he said. “They know you’re in safe hands,” and his eyes twinkled.
It was a tired lot of athletes that tumbled up to bed that night, and soon they were sleeping the deep, dreamless sleep of healthy exhaustion.
The morning of the all-important day on which the Blues and Maroons were to lock horns in order that the pennant question might be finally settled dawned gloriously. There was not a cloud in the sky and scarcely a breath of wind stirring. A storm two days before had cooled the air and settled the dust, and altogether a finer day for the deciding struggle could not have been imagined.
The game was to be played on the enemy’s grounds, and that, of course, gave them a great advantage. This was further increased by the fact that it was Commencement Week, and from all parts of the country great throngs of the old graduates had been pouring for days into the little town that held so large a place in their memories and affections. They could be depended on to a man to be present that afternoon, rooting with all their might and yelling their heads off to encourage the home team.
However, they would not have it all their own way in that matter, although of course theywould be in the majority. The train that brought Bert and his comrades on the day before was packed with wildly enthusiastic supporters, and a whole section of the grandstand would be reserved for them. They had rehearsed their songs and cheers and were ready to break loose at any time on the smallest provocation and “make Rome howl.” And, as is the way of college rooters, they had little doubt that when they took the train for home they would carry their enemies’ scalps at their belts. They would have mobbed anybody for the mere suggestion that their favorites could lose.
They packed the hotel corridors with an exuberant and hilarious crowd that night that “murdered sleep” for any one within earshot, and it was in the “wee, sma’ hours” when they at last sought their beds, to snatch a few hours’ sleep and dream of the great game on the morrow. Not so the team themselves, however. They had been carried away to a secluded suite, where after a good supper and a little quiet chat in which baseball was not permitted to intrude, they were tucked away in their beds by their careful trainer and by ten o’clock were sleeping soundly.
At seven the next morning they were astir, and, after a substantial breakfast, submitted themselves to “Reddy’s” rubdown and massage, at the conclusion of which their bodies were glowing,their eyes bright, and they felt “fine as silk,” in Reddy’s phrase, and ready for anything. It was like getting a string of thoroughbreds thoroughly groomed and sending them to the post fit to race for a kingdom. To keep them from dwelling on the game, Reddy took them for a quiet stroll in the country, returning only in time for a leisurely though not hearty dinner, after which they piled into their ’bus and started for the ball field.
As they drove into the carriage gate at the lower end of the field they fairly gasped at the sight that met their eyes. They had never played before such a tremendous crowd as this. Grandstands and bleachers, the whole four sides of the field were packed with tier upon tier of noisy and jubilant rooters. Old “grads,” pretty girls and their escorts waving flags, singing songs, cheering their favorites, shouting their class cries, made a picture that, once seen, could never be forgotten.
“Some crowd, all right,” said Dick to Bert, as they came out on the field for preliminary practise.
“Yes,” said Bert, “and nine out of ten of them expect and hope to see us lose. We must put a crimp in that expectation, from the stroke of the gong.”
“And we will, too,” asserted Tom, confidently,“they never saw the day when they were a better team than ours, and it’s up to our boys to prove it to them, right off the reel.”
“How does your arm feel to-day?” asked Dick. “Can you mow them down in the good old way, if you go in the box?”
“Never felt better in my life,” rejoined Bert. “I feel as though I could pitch all day if necessary.”
“That sounds good,” said Dick, throwing his arm over Bert’s shoulder. “If that’s the way you feel, we’ve got the game sewed up already.”
“Don’t be too sure, old man,” laughed Bert. “You’d better ‘knock wood.’ We’ve seen too many good things go wrong to be sure of anything in this world of chance. By the way,” he went on, “who is that fellow up near our bench? There’s something familiar about him. By George, it’s Ainslee,” and they made a rush toward the stalwart figure that turned to meet them with a smile of greeting.
“In the name of all that’s lucky,” cried Dick, as he grasped his hand and shook it warmly, “how did you manage to get here? I thought you were with your team at Pittsburgh. There’s no man on earth I’d rather see here to-day.”
“Well,” returned the coach, his face flushing with pleasure at the cordial greeting, “I pitched yesterday, and as it will be two or three days beforemy turn in the box comes round again, I made up my mind it was worth an all-night’s journey to come up here and see you whale the life out of these fellows. Because of course that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? You wouldn’t make me spend all that time and money for nothing, would you?” he grinned.
“You bet we won’t,” laughed Dick, “just watch our smoke.”
The presence of the coach was an inspiration, and they went on for their fifteen minutes’ practise with a vim and snap that sobered up the over-confident rooters on the other side. Their playing fairly sparkled, and some of the things put across made the spectators catch their breath.
Just in front of the grandstand, Bert and Winters tried out their pitching arms. Commencing slowly, they gradually increased their pace, until they were shooting them over with railroad speed. The trainer and manager, reinforced by Mr. Ainslee, carefully watched every ball thrown, so as to get a line on the comparative speed and control. While they intended to use Bert, other things being equal, nobody knew better than they that a baseball pitcher is as variable as a finely strung race horse. One day he is invincible and has “everything” on the ball; the next, a village nine might knock him all over the lot.
But to-day seemed certainly Bert’s day. He had “speed to burn.” His curves were breaking sharply enough to suit even Ainslee’s critical eye, and while Winters also was in fine fettle, his control was none too good. Hinsdale was called into the conference.
“How about it, Hin?” asked Ainslee. “How do they feel when they come into the glove?”
“Simply great,” replied the catcher, “they almost knock me over, and his change of pace is perfect.”
“That settles it,” said Ainslee, and the others acquiesced.
So that when at last the starting gong rang and a breathless silence fell over the field, as Tom strode to the plate, Bert thrilled with the knowledge that he had been selected to carry the “pitching burden,” and that upon him, more than any other member of the team, rested that day’s defeat or victory.
The lanky, left-handed pitcher wound up deliberately and shot one over the plate. Tom didn’t move an eyelash.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and the home crowd cheered.
The next one was a ball.
“Good eye, old man!” yelled Dick from the bench. “You’ve got him guessing.”
The next was a strike, and then two balls followedin rapid succession. The pitcher measured the distance carefully, and sent one right over the center of the rubber. Tom fouled it and grinned at the pitcher. A little off his balance, he sent the next one in high, and Tom trotted down to first, amid the wild yells of his college mates.
Flynn came next with a pretty sacrifice that put Tom on second. Drake sent a long fly that the center fielder managed to get under. But before he could get set for the throw in, Tom, who had left second the instant the catch was made, slid into third in a cloud of dust just before the ball reached there.
“He’s got his speed with him to-day,” muttered Ainslee, “now if Trent can only bring him home.”
But Tom had other views. He had noticed that the pitcher took an unusually long wind-up. Then too, being left-handed, he naturally faced toward first instead of third, as he started to deliver the ball. Foot by foot, Tom increased his lead off third, watching the pitcher meanwhile, with the eye of a hawk. Two balls and one strike had been called on Dick, when, just as the pitcher began his wind-up, Tom made a dash for the plate and came down the line like a panic-stricken jack-rabbit.
Warned by the roar that went up from the excited crowd, the pitcher stopped his wind-up, andhurriedly threw the ball to the catcher. But the unexpectedness of the move rattled him and he threw low. There was a mixup of legs and arms, as Tom threw himself to the ground twenty feet from the plate and slid over the rubber, beating the ball by a hair. The visiting crowd went wild, and generous applause came even from the home rooters over the scintillating play, while his mates fairly smothered him as he rose and trotted over to the bench.
“He stole home,” cried Reddy, whose face was as red as his hair with excitement. “The nerve of him! He stole home!”
It was one of the almost impossible plays that one may go all through the baseball season without seeing. Not only did it make sure of one precious run—and that run was destined to look as big as a mountain as the game progressed—but it had a tendency to throw the opposing team off its balance, while it correspondingly inspired and encouraged the visitors.
However, the pitcher pulled himself together, and although he passed Dick to first by the four-ball route, he made Hodge send up a high foul to the catcher and the side was out.
The home crowd settled back with a sigh of relief. After all, only one run had been scored, and the game was young. Wait till their heavy artillery got into action and there would be adifferent story to tell. They had expected that Winters, the veteran, would probably be the one on whom the visitors would pin their hopes for the crucial game, and there was a little rustle of surprise when they saw a newcomer move toward the box. They took renewed hope when they learned that he was a Freshman, and that this was his first season as a pitcher. No matter how good he was, it stood to reason that when their sluggers got after him they would quickly “have his number.”
“Well, Wilson,” said Ainslee, as Bert drew on his glove, “the fellows have given you a run to start with. You can’t ask any more of them than that. Take it easy, don’t let them rattle you, and don’t use your fadeaway as long as your curves and fast straight ones are working right. Save that for the pinches.”
“All right,” answered Bert, “if the other fellows play the way Tom is doing, I’ll have nothing left to ask for in the matter of support, and it’s up to me to do the rest.”
For a moment as he faced the head of the enemy’s batting order, and realized all that depended on him, his head grew dizzy. The immense throng of faces swam before his eyes and Dick’s “Now, Bert, eat them up,” seemed to come from a mile away. The next instant his brain cleared. He took a grip on himself. Thecrowd no longer wavered before his eyes. He was as cold and hard as steel.
“Come, Freshie,” taunted Ellis, the big first baseman, as he shook his bat, “don’t cheat me out of my little three bagger. I’ll make it a homer if you don’t hurry up.”
He jumped back as a swift, high one cut the plate right under his neck.
“Strike,” called the umpire.
“Naughty, naughty,” said Ellis, but his tone had lost some of its jauntiness.
The next was a wide outcurve away from the plate, but Ellis did not “bite,” and it went as a ball.
Another teaser tempted him and he lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale, who smothered it easily.
Hart, who followed, was an easy victim, raising a pop fly to Sterling at second. Gunther, the clean-up hitter of the team, sent a grounder to short that ordinarily would have been a sure out, but, just before reaching White, it took an ugly bound and went out into right. Sterling, who was backing up White, retrieved it quickly, but Gunther reached first in safety. The crowd roared their delight.
“Here’s where we score,” said one to his neighbor. “I knew it was only a matter—Thunder! Look at that.”
“That” was a lightning snap throw from Bertto Dick that caught Gunther five feet off first. The move had been so sudden and unexpected that Dick had put the ball on him before the crowd fairly realized that it had left the pitcher’s hand. It was a capital bit of “inside stuff” that brought the Blues to their feet in tempestuous cheering, as Bert walked in to the bench.
“O, I guess our Freshie is bad, all right,” shouted one to Ellis, as he walked to his position.
“We’ll get him yet,” retorted the burly fielder. “He’ll blow up when his time comes.”
But the time was long in coming. In the next three innings, only nine men faced him, and four of these “fanned.” His “whip” was getting better and better as the game progressed. His heart leaped with the sense of mastery. There was something uncanny in the way the ball obeyed him. It twisted, curved, rose and fell like a thing alive. A hush fell on the crowd. All of them, friend and foe, felt that they were looking at a game that would make baseball history. Ainslee’s heart was beating as though it would break through his ribs. Could he keep up that demon pitching? Would the end come with a rush? Was it in human nature for a mere boy before that tremendous crowd to stand the awful strain? He looked the unspoken questions to Reddy, who stared back at him.
“He’ll do it, Mr. Ainslee, he’ll do it. He’s got them under his thumb. They can’t get to him. That ball fairly talks. He whispers to it and tells it what to do.”
The other pitcher, too, was on his mettle. Since the first inning, no one of his opponents had crossed the rubber. Only two hits had been garnered off his curves and his drop ball was working beautifully. He was determined to pitch his arm off before he would lower his colors to this young cub, who threatened to dethrone him as the premier twirler of the league. It looked like a pitchers’ duel, with only one or two runs deciding the final score.
In the fifth, the “stonewall infield” cracked. Sterling, the “old reliable,” ran in for a bunt and got it easily, but threw the ball “a mile” over Dick’s head. By the time the ball was back in the diamond, the batter was on third, and the crowd, scenting a chance to score, was shouting like mad. The cheer leaders started a song that went booming over the field and drowned the defiant cheer hurled at them in return. The coachers danced up and down on the first and third base lines, and tried to rattle Bert by jeers and taunts.
“He’s going up now,” they yelled, “all aboard for the air ship. Get after him, boys. It’s all over but the shouting.”
But Bert had no idea of going up in the air. The sphere whistled as he struck out Allen on three pitched balls. Halley sent up a sky scraper that Sterling redeemed himself by getting under in fine style. Ellis shot a hot liner straight to the box, that Bert knocked down with his left hand, picked up with his right, and got his man at first. It was a narrow escape from the tightest of tight places, and Ainslee and Reddy breathed again, while the disgusted home rooters sat back and groaned. To get a man on third with nobody out, and yet not be able to get him home. Couldn’t they melt that icicle in the pitcher’s box? What license did he have anyway to make such a show of them?
The sixth inning passed without any sign of the icicle thawing, but Ainslee detected with satisfaction that the strain was beginning to tell on the big southpaw. He was getting noticeably wild and finding it harder and harder to locate the plate. When he did get them over, the batters stung them hard, and only superb support on the part of his fielders had saved him from being scored upon.
At the beginning of the seventh, the crowd, as it always does at that stage, rose to its feet and stretched.
“The lucky seventh,” it shouted. “Here’s where we win.”
They had scarcely settled down in their seats however, when Tom cracked out a sharp single that went like a rifle shot between second and short. Flynn sent him to second with an easy roller along the first base line. The pitcher settled down and “whiffed” Drake, but Dick caught one right on the end of the bat and sent it screaming out over the left fielder’s head. It was a clean home run, and Dick had followed Tom over the plate before the ball had been returned to the infield.
Now it was the Blues’ turn to howl, and they did so until they were hoarse, while the home rooters sat back and glowered and the majority gave up the game as lost. With such pitching to contend against, three runs seemed a sure winning lead.
In the latter half of the inning, however, things changed as though by magic. The uncertainty that makes the chief charm of the game asserted itself. With everything going on merrily with the visitors, the goddess of chance gave a twist to the kaleidoscope, and the whole scene took on a different aspect.
Gunther, who was still sore at the way Bert had showed him up at first, sent up a “Texas leaguer” just back of short. White turned and ran for it, while big Flynn came rushing in from center. They came together with terrific force androlled over and over, while the ball fell between them.
White rose dizzily to his feet, but Flynn lay there, still and crumpled. His mates and some of the opposing team ran to him and bore him to the bench. It was a clean knockout, and several minutes elapsed before he regained consciousness and was assisted from the field, while Ames, a substitute outfielder, took his place. Tom had regained the ball in the meantime and held Gunther at second. The umpire called “play” and the game went on.
But a subtle something had come over the Blues. An accident at a critical time like this was sure to be more or less demoralizing. Their nerves, already stretched to the utmost tension, were not proof against the sudden shock. Both the infield and outfield seemed to go to pieces all at once. The enemy were quick to take advantage of the changed conditions. Gunther took a long lead off second, and, at a signal from his captain, started for third. Hinsdale made an awful throw that Tom only stopped by a sideway leap, but not in time to get the runner. Menken sent a grounder to White that ordinarily he would have “eaten up,” but he fumbled it just long enough to let the batter get to first, while Gunther cantered over the plate for their first run of the game amid roars of delight fromthe frantic rooters. It looked as though the long-expected break was coming at last.
The next man up struck out and the excitement quieted down somewhat, only to be renewed with redoubled fervor a moment later, when Halley caught a low outcurve just below the waist and laced it into center for a clean double. Smart fielding kept the man on first from getting further than third, but that seemed good enough. Only one man was out and two were on bases, and one of their heaviest batters was coming up. Bert looked him over carefully and then sent him deliberately four wide balls. He planned to fill the bases and then make the next man hit into a double play, thus retiring the side.
It was good judgment and Ainslee noted it with approval. Many a time he had done the same thing himself in a pinch and “gotten away with it.”
As Bert wound up, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Halley was taking a long lead off second. Quick as lightning, he turned and shot the ball to White, who ran from short to cover the base. The throw was so true that he could easily have nailed Halley, as he frantically tried to get back. But although White had pluckily insisted on being allowed to play, his head was still spinning like a top from the recent collision, and a groan went up from the “Blue” supporters asthe ball caromed off his glove and rolled out to center. The three men on bases fairly burned up the base lines as they galloped around the bags, and when Ames’ hurried return of the ball went over Hinsdale’s head to the grand stand, all the bases were cleared, and the score stood four to three in favor of the home team. It had all occurred so suddenly that the visitors were in a daze, and the home nine itself could hardly realize how quickly the tables had been turned.
For a moment rage took possession of Bert. What was the matter with the fellows anyway? Why were they playing like a bunch of “Rubes”? Did they expect him to win the game all by himself? Was the victory to be snatched away just as it was within sight? Were these jubilant, yelling rooters, dancing about and hugging each other, to send him and his comrades away, downcast and beaten? Were they to “laugh last” and therefore “best”? And the fellows hundreds of miles away, gathered at this moment around the bulletin board of the dear old college——
No! No! A thousand times, no! In a moment he was himself again—the same old Bert, cool, careful, self-reliant. He stooped down and pretended to tie his shoe lace, in order to give his comrades a moment to regain their self-possession. Then he straightened up and shot a beauty right over the plate. The batter, who had been orderedto wait and take advantage of Bert’s expected case of “rattles,” let it go by. Two perfect strikes followed and the batter was out. The next man up dribbled a roller to the box and Bert threw him out easily. The inning was over, and Bert had to take off his cap to the storm of cheers that came from the “Blue” supporters as he walked to the bench.
Ainslee scanned him carefully for any sign of collapse after this “baptism of fire.” Where were the fellow’s nerves? Did he have any? Bert met his glance with an easy smile, and the coach, reassured, heaved a sigh of relief. No “yellow streak” there, but clear grit through and through.
“It’s the good old fadeaway from now on, Wilson,” he said as he clapped him on the back, “usually I believe in letting them hit and remembering that you have eight men behind you to help you out. But just now there’s a little touch of panic among the boys, and while that would soon wear off, you only have two innings left. This game has got to be won in the pitcher’s box. Hold them down and we will bat out a victory yet.”
“All right,” answered Bert; “I’ve only used the fadeaway once or twice this game, and they’ve had no chance to size it up. I’ll mix it in with the others and try to keep them guessing.”
Drake and Dick made desperate attempts to overcome the one run advantage in their half of the eighth. Each cracked out a hot single, but the three that followed were unable to bring them home, despite the frantic adjurations of their friends to “kill the ball.”
Only one more inning now, one last chance to win as a forlorn hope, or fall fighting in the last ditch.
A concerted effort was made to rattle Bert as he went into the box, but for all the effect it had upon him, his would-be tormentors might as well have been in Timbuctoo. He was thoroughly master of himself. The ball came over the plate as though shot from a gatling gun for the first batter, whose eye was good for curves, but who, twice before, had proved easy prey for speedy ones. A high foul to the catcher disposed of him. Allen, the next man up, set himself for a fast one, and was completely fooled by the lazy floater that suddenly dropped a foot below his bat, just as it reached the plate. A second and third attempt sent him sheepishly back to the bench.
“Gee, that was a new one on me,” he muttered. “I never saw such a drop in my life. It was just two jerks and a wiggle.”
His successor was as helpless as a baby before the magical delivery, and amid a tempest of cheers, the Blues came in for their last turn atbat. Sterling raised their hopes for a moment by a soaring fly to center. But the fielder, running with the ball, made a beautiful catch, falling as he did so, but coming up with the ball in his hand. Some of the spectators started to leave, but stopped when White shot a scorcher so hot that the second baseman could not handle it. Ames followed with a screaming single to left that put White on third, which he reached by a desperate slide. A moment later Ames was out stealing second, and with two men out and hope nearly dead, Bert came to the plate. He caught the first ball pitched on the end of his bat and sent it on a line between right and center. And then he ran.
How he ran! He rounded first like a frightened deer and tore toward second. The wind whistled in his ears. His heart beat like a trip hammer. He saw as in a dream the crowds, standing now, and shouting like fiends. He heard Dick yelling: “Go it, Bert, go it, go it!” He caught a glimpse of Tom running toward third base to coach him in. He passed second. The ground slipped away beneath his feet. He was no longer running, he was flying. The third baseman tried to block him, but he went into him like a catapult and rolled him over and over. Now he was on the road to home. But the ball was coming too. He knew it by the warning cryof Reddy, by the startled urging of Tom, by the outstretched hands of the catcher. With one tremendous effort he flung himself to the ground and made a fallaway slide for the plate, just touching it with his finger tips, as the ball thudded into the catcher’s mitt. Two men in and the score five to four, while the Blues’ stand rocked with thunders of applause.
“By George,” cried Ainslee, “such running! It was only a two base hit, and you stretched it into a homer.”
The next batter was out on a foul to left, and the home team came in to do or die. If now they couldn’t beat that wizard of the box, their gallant fight had gone for nothing. They still had courage, but it was the courage of despair. They were used to curves and rifle shots. They might straighten out the one and shoot back the other, but that new mysterious delivery, that snaky, tantalizing, impish fadeaway, had robbed them of confidence. Still, “while there was life there was hope,” so——
Ainslee and Reddy were a little afraid that Bert’s sprint might have tired him and robbed him of his speed. But they might have spared their fears. His wind was perfect and his splendid condition stood him in good stead. He was a magnificent picture of young manhood, as for the last time he faced his foes. His eyes shone,his nerves thrilled, his muscles strained, his heart sang. His enemies he held in the hollow of his hand. He toyed with them in that last inning as a cat plays with a mouse. His fadeaway was working like a charm. No need now to spare himself. Ellis went out on three pitched balls. Hart lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale. Gunther came up, and the excitement broke all bounds.
The vast multitude was on its feet, shouting, urging, begging, pleading. A hurricane of cheers and counter cheers swept over the field. Reddy was jumping up and down, shouting encouragement to Bert, while Ainslee sat perfectly still, pale as death and biting his lips till the blood came. Bert cut loose savagely, and the ball whistled over the plate. Gunther lunged at it.
“One strike!” called the umpire.
Gunther had been expecting the fadeaway that had been served to the two before him, and was not prepared for the swift high one, just below the shoulder. Bert had outguessed him.
Hinsdale rolled the ball slowly back along the ground to the pitcher’s box. Bert stopped, picked it up leisurely, and then, swift as a flash, snapped it over the left hand corner of the plate. Before the astonished batsman knew it was coming, Hinsdale grabbed it for the second strike.
“Fine work, Bert!” yelled Dick from first. “Great head.”
Gunther, chagrined and enraged, set himself fiercely for the next. Bert wound up slowly. The tumult and the shouting died. A silence as of death fell on the field. The suspense was fearful. Before Bert’s eyes came up the dear old college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowd at this moment gathered there about the bulletin—— Then he let go.
For forty feet the ball shot toward the plate in a line. Gunther gauged it and drew back his bat. Then the ball hesitated, slowed, seemed to reconsider, again leaped forward, and, eluding Gunther’s despairing swing, curved sharply down and in, and fell like a plummet in Hinsdale’s eager hands.
“You’re out,” cried the umpire, tearing off his mask. The crowd surged down over the field, and Bert was swallowed up in the frantic rush of friends and comrades gone crazy with delight. And again he saw the dear old college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowd at this moment gathered there about the bulletin——.
Some days after his fadeaway had won the pennant—after the triumphal journey back to the college, the uproarious reception, the bonfires, the processions, the “war dance” on the campus—Bert sat in his room, admiring the splendid souvenirpresented to him by the college enthusiasts. The identical ball that struck out Gunther had been encased in a larger one of solid gold, on which was engraved his name, together with the date and score of the famous game. Bert handled it caressingly.
“Well, old fellow,” he said, half aloud, “you stood by me nobly, but it was a hard fight. I never expect to have a harder one.”
He would have been startled, had he known of the harder one just ahead. That Spring he had fought for glory; before the Summer was over he would fight for life. How gallant the fight he made, how desperate the chances he took, and how great the victory he won, will be told in
“Bert Wilson, Wireless Operator.”
THE END