nd. It was a wonderful
catch and he doubled up a runner at second. Again in the seventh we
had a chance to score, only to fail on another double play, this time
by the infield.

When the Providence players were at bat their luck not only held good
but trebled and quadrupled. The little Texas-league hits dropped
safely just out of reach of the infielders. My boys had an off day in
fielding. What horror that of all days in a season this should be the
one for them to make errors!

But they were game, and the Rube was the gamest of all. He did not
seem to know what hard luck was, or discouragement, or poor support. He
kept everlastingly hammering the ball at those lucky Providence
hitters. What speed he had! The ball streaked in, and somebody would
shut his eyes and make a safety. But the Rube pitched, on, tireless,
irresistibly, hopeful, not forgetting to call a word of cheer to his
fielders.

It was one of those strange games that could not be bettered by any
labor or daring or skill. I saw it was lost from the second inning, yet
so deeply was I concerned, so tantalizingly did the plays reel
themselves off, that I groveled there on the bench unable to abide by
my baseball sense.

The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of doubt how baseball fate, in
common with other fates, loved to balance the chances, to lift up one,
then the other, to lend a deceitful hope only to dash it away.

Providence had almost three times enough to win. The team let up in
that inning or grew over-confident or careless, and before we knew what
had happened some scratch hits, and bases on balls, and errors, gave us
three runs and left two runners on bases. The disgusted bleachers came
out of their gloom and began to whistle and thump. The Rube hit
safely, sending another run over the plate. McCall worked his old
trick, beating out a slow bunt.

Bases full, three runs to tie! With Ashwell up and one out, the noise
in the bleachers mounted to a high-pitched, shrill, continuous sound.
I got up and yelled with all my might and could not hear my voice.
Ashwell was a dangerous man in a pinch. The game was not lost yet. A
hit, anything to get Ash to first--and then Stringer!

Ash laughed at Henderson, taunted him, shook his bat at him and dared
him to put one over. Henderson did not stand under fire. The ball he
pitched had no steam. Ash cracked it--square on the line into the
shortstop's hands. The bleachers ceased yelling.