s feet, unsteady
and hoarse.

Bases full, Reddie Ray up, three runs to tie!

Delaney looked at Reddie. And Reddie looked at Delaney. The manager's
face was pale, intent, with a little smile. The player had eyes of
fire, a lean, bulging jaw and the hands he reached for his bat clutched
like talons.

"Reddie, I knew it was waitin' for you," said Delaney, his voice
ringing. "Break up the game!"

After all this was only a baseball game, and perhaps from the fans'
viewpoint a poor game at that. But the moment when that lithe,
redhaired athlete toed the plate was a beautiful one. The long crash
from the bleachers, the steady cheer from the grand stand, proved that
it was not so much the game that mattered.

Wehying had shot his bolt; he was tired. Yet he made ready for a final
effort. It seemed that passing Reddie Ray on balls would have been a
wise play at that juncture. But no pitcher, probably, would have done
it with the bases crowded and chances, of course, against the batter.

Clean and swift, Reddie leaped at the first pitched ball. Ping! For a
second no one saw the hit. Then it gleamed, a terrific drive, low
along the ground, like a bounding bullet, straight at Babcock in right
field. It struck his hands and glanced viciously away to roll toward
the fence.

Thunder broke loose from the stands. Reddie Ray was turning first
base. Beyond first base he got into his wonderful stride. Some
runners run with a consistent speed, the best they can make for a given
distance. But this trained sprinter gathered speed as he ran. He was
no short-stepping runner. His strides were long. They gave an
impression of strength combined with fleetness. He had the speed of a
race horse, but the trimness, the raciness, the delicate legs were not
characteristic of him. Like the wind he turned second, so powerful
that his turn was short. All at once there came a difference in his
running. It was no longer beautiful. The grace was gone. It was now
fierce, violent. His momentum was running him off his legs. He
whirled around third base and came hurtling down the homestretch. His
face was convulsed, his eyes were wild. His arms and legs worked in a
marvelous muscular velocity. He seemed a demon--a flying streak. He
overtook and ran down the laboring Scott, who had almost reached the
plate.

The park seemed full of shrill, piercing strife. It swelled, reached a
highest pitch, sustained that for a long moment,