don't care what becomes of me--now-w!"

Score tied, three to three, game must go ten innings--that was the
shibboleth; that was the overmastering truth. The game did go ten
innings--eleven--twelve, every one marked by masterly pitching, full of
magnificent catches, stops and throws, replete with reckless
base-running and slides like flashes in the dust. But they were
unproductive of runs. Three to three! Thirteen innings!

"Unlucky thirteenth," wailed a superstitious fan.

I had got down to plugging, and for the first time, not for my home
team. I wanted Philadelphia to win, because Burt was on the team.
With Old Well-Well sitting there so rigid in his seat, so obsessed by
the playing of the lad, I turned traitor to New York.

White cut a high twisting bounder inside the third base, and before the
ball could be returned he stood safely on second. The fans howled with
what husky voice they had left. The second hitter batted a
tremendously high fly toward center field. Burt wheeled with the crack
of the ball and raced for the ropes. Onward the ball soared like a
sailing swallow; the fleet fielder ran with his back to the stands.
What an age that ball stayed in the air! Then it lost its speed,
gracefully curved and began to fall. Burt lunged forward and upwards;
the ball lit in his hands and stuck there as he plunged over the ropes
into the crowd. White had leisurely trotted half way to third; he saw
the catch, ran back to touch second and then easily made third on the
throw-in. The applause that greeted Burt proved the splendid spirit of
the game. Bell placed a safe little hit over short, scoring White.
Heaving, bobbing bleachers--wild, broken, roar on roar!

Score four to three--only one half inning left for Philadelphia to
play--how the fans rooted for another run! A swift double-play,
however, ended the inning.

Philadelphia's first hitter had three strikes called on him.

"Asleep at the switch!" yelled a delighted fan.

The next batter went out on a weak pop-up fly to second.

"Nothin' to it!"

"Oh, I hate to take this money!"

"All-l o-over!"

Two men at least of all that vast assemblage had not given up victory
for Philadelphia. I had not dared to look at Old Well-Well for a long,
while. I dreaded the nest portentious moment. I felt deep within me
something like clairvoyant force, an intangible belief fostered by hope.

Magoon, the slugger of the Phillies, slugged one against the left