back of Clammer. Reddy had no time to loaf on
this hit. It was all he could do to reach it and he made a splendid
catch, for which the crowd roundly applauded him. That applause was
wine to Reddy Clammer. He began to prance on his toes and sing out to
Scott: "Make 'em hit to me, old man! Make 'em hit to me!" Whether
Scott desired that or not was scarcely possible to say; at any rate,
Hanley pounded a hit through the infield. And Clammer, prancing high
in the air like a check-reined horse, ran to intercept the ball. He
could have received it in his hands, but that would never have served
Reddy Clammer. He timed the hit to a nicety, went down with his old
grand-stand play and blocked the ball with his anatomy. Delaney swore.
And the bleachers, now warm toward the gallant outfielder, lustily
cheered him. Babcock hit down the right-field foul line, giving
Clammer a long run. Hanley was scoring and Babcock was sprinting for
third base when Reddy got the ball. He had a fine arm and he made a
hard and accurate throw, catching his man in a close play.

Perhaps even Delaney could not have found any fault with that play.
But the aftermath spoiled the thing. Clammer now rode the air; he
soared; he was in the clouds; it was his inning and he had utterly
forgotten his team mates, except inasmuch as they were performing mere
little automatic movements to direct the great machinery in his
direction for his sole achievement and glory.

There is fate in baseball as well as in other walks of life. O'Brien
was a strapping fellow and he lifted another ball into Clammer's wide
territory. The hit was of the high and far-away variety. Clammer
started to run with it, not like a grim outfielder, but like one
thinking of himself, his style, his opportunity, his inevitable
success. Certain it was that in thinking of himself the outfielder
forgot his surroundings. He ran across the foul line, head up, hair
flying, unheeding the warning cry from Healy. And, reaching up to make
his crowning circus play, he smashed face forward into the bleachers
fence. Then, limp as a rag, he dropped. The audience sent forth a
long groan of sympathy.

"That wasn't one of his stage falls," said Delaney. "I'll bet he's
dead.... Poor Reddy! And I want him to bust his face!"

Clammer was carried off the field into the dressing room and a
physician was summoned out of the audience.

"Cap., what'd it--do to him?" asked Delaney.

"Aw, spoiled