CHAPTER XXVIIITHE THIRD GAME
I placed the ball over the inner corner of the base, Arnold struck it good and hard, and sent it flying along the ground toward third base. Quick as a flash Percy Randall picked it up and threw it to first.
“Batter out,” cried the umpire, and the three omnibuses again became noisy. Two more men were easily disposed of, and we closed our opponents out without a run.
Thus far the fun had been all our own, while the grand stand had kept silence. Immediately on leaving the field to take our innings, several of us ran over to the omnibuses to greet our friends.
“Why were you so late?” I called to Clinton Edwards.
“We drove all the way over—didn’t come by rail, for we knew we couldn’t hire omnibuses in this hole of a town. We didn’t start early enough, and I was afraid we were going to miss part of the game. It’s all right now, so go in and win. We are ‘wid yez.’”
We failed, however, to make a run in our half of the first inning, three of our men, in succession, succumbing to the skilful pitching of Arnold. This gavethe grand stand a chance, and they responded with a will. They had recovered from their first surprise by this time, and settled down to their original plan of shouting us into demoralization. It was a vain task, however, with those noisy omnibuses opposite. Clinton Edward’s party paid them back in their own coin every time, and the effect upon us was proportionately inspiring.
No runs were made on either side in the second inning. In the third inning their first batter secured a hit, the first one of the game, and reached his base amid howls from the grand stand. He reached second through a bad throw of Dick Palmer’s. The next batter then struck a pop fly up in the air just over short-stop. George Ives stood waiting for it, when the runner from second base ran full tilt into him, upsetting him and reaching third base while the ball fell to the ground.
We claimed a foul, but the runner declared that Ives was directly in his path, where he had no business to be, and the umpire decided against him. George may have been in the runner’s path, but it was plainly a trick, for no runner would have attempted to run from second under such circumstances except with the intention of knocking George down, as he could only in that way gain third base.
Immediately a warm discussion took place in which the runner became so actively engaged that he thoughtlessly left his base, and stood several feet off. PercyRandall noticing this, and having picked up the ball unobserved by the others, called out,
“Mr. Umpire, have you called time?”
“No,” was the response.
“Then how is that?” asked Percy, quickly touching the runner with the ball.
“The runner is out!” said the umpire beckoning to him to come in.
Chagrined and mortified, the runner walked sulkily in. The Park men were badly upset by this clever dodge, for they felt confident of securing a run, there being no men out, and a man on third. They did not regain their lost advantage, and we closed the inning with the score still blank.
From that time on the crowd selected Percy Randall for their special attention, and sought in every way to disconcert him. They had picked out the wrong man, however. Percy played away as unconcernedly as if he heard nothing, and if anything with more than his usual dash and brilliancy. He was the first man at the bat in the fourth inning, and the second ball pitched struck him on the arm. He was of course given his base.
“Now is your chance, Percy,” said Ray. “Get away to second at once. There are no men out.”
Percy was off like the wind, and reached second base in safety by one of his phenomenal slides, which of course brought the voices of Clinton Edwards’ chorus into vigorous play.
I came next to the bat. We had thus far been unableto do anything with Arnold, who was pitching in magnificent form, and we were beginning to fear we never could handle him. I watched my chances carefully, and succeeded in driving a hard ball to the short stop. Percy Randall purposely made a start toward third, and the short stop, on picking up the ball, turned to keep him at second. In this way he lost several seconds—time enough to allow me to reach first base. Then Ray came to the bat.
“If he will repeat his exploit of Saturday, we will have a great lead,” I thought.
At the first ball Ray struck hard, driving it well up into the air and out between left and center field. It was an easy fly to catch, and I fully expected to see the fielder capture it, so I did not start off very fast. To my surprise, however, the fielder had not run ten steps when his foot slipped, and down he tumbled, the ball alighting on the ground some distance behind him. A loud exclamation of disappointment escaped the crowd, while Percy and I dashed around the bases; and before the fielder could pick himself up and get the ball, both of us scored, and Ray stood on third base.
Our friends went wild with joy, while the Park men were glum and silent. Before the inning closed, Ray reached home on a sacrifice hit of Frank Holland’s to right field, and the score stood 3–0 in our favor. The Park men then bent every nerve to the task of tying the score.
Foes though they were, I gave them the credit ofplaying a splendid up hill game. In the sixth inning they secured one run, and in the eighth inning another, making the score 3–2. During these innings Arnold’s work had been exceptionally fine, and we had been unable to make more than two or three safe hits.
“I’m afraid Arnold is almost too much for us to-day,” said Ray to me. “Our hope lies chiefly in holding the lead. If we can do so for one more inning, the game is ours.”
We went into the field for the ninth inning with the determination to do or die. The first batter was promptly put out by a ground hit which Ray captured neatly, in spite of the disconcerting howls from the grand stand. As the excitement had increased during the latter part of the game, the behavior of the Park men had of course grown more riotous. In every way they had tried to put us out by their noise, but our attention was so absorbed in our work that it had scarcely affected us.
The second batter in this last inning reached first on a safe hit, and was followed by Arnold, who, from the scowl he wore, seemed bent on knocking the cover off the ball. I was sorry to see him at the bat at such a moment, for he was a strong batter, and I was pretty well tired out by my hard work of the afternoon and Saturday. Several balls were called, and I was compelled to send one directly over the plate. Arnold saw his chance and took it.
With a sharp crack he sent the ball away out towardright field, and reached second base in safety, sending the former runner to third. This made two men out, with runners on second and third bases.
Beard then came to the bat. From the care with which he settled himself, one could see he appreciated the gravity of the situation. If he succeeded in making a heavy hit, the chances were that he could bring in two runs.
At the second ball he struck wildly; and, more by chance than good judgment, drove it well up into the air toward center field. We all looked after it with anxious eyes.
“Take it, Page!” cried Ray, as he saw both Lewis Page and Alfred Barnett run for it. Arnold and the other runner ran around toward the home plate. The fate of the game, therefore, rested on Lewis Page, who now stood well under the ball, his hands up, ready to receive it. We watched its descent in breathless suspense. Downward it shot like a swallow. Lewis Page’s hands closed quickly about it.
“Striker out,” called the umpire, and the game was over.
Immediately the field was a scene of wild confusion. In a mass, Clinton Edward’s band of followers, who had been with difficulty suppressing their excitement, charged across the roadway, shouting and cheering. Seizing hold of us, they hugged and tore us half to pieces in their joy.
“Boys, it was glorious,” croaked Clinton, in a hoarse voice scarcely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t havemissed it for the world. The Crimson Banner will soon be ours;” and off he went again into a wild fit of ecstasy, clasping the man who happened to be nearest to him.
Among those pressing around to congratulate Ray I was interested in seeing Len Howard. I had not noticed him in any of the omnibuses, but he seemed to be one of the most enthusiastic. The fellows were eager to carry us off with them, but Ray objected.
“No,” he said. “We have our omnibus, and we must return to the hotel, for I have to see Beard by agreement after the game.”
“Do you intend driving back to Belmont?” I asked Clinton.
“Certainly,” he answered.
“Then, if you expect to get there before we do, you will have to start soon, for we go by train.”
“You don’t return till after dinner?”
“No,” I answered.
“Then we will have time. We want to get back before you, so as to prepare the boys. We must have a bonfire to-night.”
As soon as some measure of order could be restored Clinton got his crowd together into the omnibuses; and after a farewell round of cheers, they took their leave, while we drove back to the hotel. The rest of the spectators had dispersed in angry silence.
“Well, talk about luck!” exclaimed Tony, as he came into the room where we were changing our suitsand packing our things. “How was that for a close shave?”
“Entirely too close,” answered Ray. “We climbed through a pretty small hole to-day. One or two more innings, and they might have got away with us. We won by pure luck, and we haven’t much to boast of. I tell you what it is, fellows, if we are going to win that Crimson Banner, we will have to learn how to hit Arnold’s pitching. He had us fairly at his mercy this afternoon.”
“I don’t think they outplayed us,” said Percy Randall.
“Nor I,” answered Ray, “but they played a stronger game than I expected, and I didn’t feel at all sure of our success until the last man was out. I gave a long sigh of relief when Lewis Page gobbled up that fly ball. All we want to do is to bat stronger. If we can get the best of Arnold we can beat them any number of times. Batting is what we need to practise.”
After dinner, Ray, Tony, and I were standing on the hotel piazza where a number of the students and town men were assembled. Among the former was Beard, who came forward as he caught a glimpse of Ray’s face. The result of the game had not improved his disposition. He was morose and surly. At the first words of the interview, Arnold, who had been standing a short distance away, came forward and joined us.
“I suppose it would be better to write you concerningthe decisive game,” said Ray, addressing Beard. “I do not feel able at present to suggest a date.”
“I do not see any reason for a ‘decisive game,’” said Arnold coldly.
“Why, what do you mean?” I asked in astonishment.
“The rules of the League say nothing about decisive games,” answered Arnold. “We have the Crimson Banner, and we hold it in case of a tie. We hold it until some other college can win it from us.”
“Mr. Arnold,” said Ray quietly, “the rules of the League say that, in case of a tie, it can be played off according to any arrangement agreed upon between the captains of the two competing nines. Allow me to say that I arranged before the game this afternoon with Mr. Beard, your captain, that we should play a decisive game at Belmont in case of a tie.”
“What!” cried Arnold irritably, turning to Beard. “Do you mean to say that you made any such arrangement?”
“I did,” said Beard, looking away.
“Well, what under the sun did you—Beard, you’ve made a fool of yourself,” said Arnold.
“As Mr. Beard is captain, and not you, Mr. Arnold, I don’t see what importance your opinion can be in this interview,” said Ray. “As I tell you, arrangements for a decisive game have been made. You surely can have no objections to playing the season to a satisfactory finish. You must see to what unfavorablecriticism your refusal to play would subject you.”
“We will play you when and where you choose,” said Arnold, turning angrily on his heel and leaving us.