field
bleachers, but, being heavy and slow, he could not get beyond second
base. Cless swung with all his might at the first pitched ball, and
instead of hitting it a mile as he had tried, he scratched a mean,
slow, teasing grounder down the third base line. It was as safe as if
it had been shot out of a cannon. Magoon went to third.

The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities; sharp commands came
from the players' bench. The Philadelphia team were bowling and
hopping on the side lines, and had to be put down by the umpire.

An inbreathing silence fell upon stands and field, quiet, like a lull
before a storm.

When I saw young Burt start for the plate and realized it was his turn
at bat, I jumped as if I had been shot. Putting my hand on Old
Well-Well's shoulder I whispered: "Burt's at bat: He'll break up this
game! I know he's going to lose one!"

The old fellow did not feel my touch; he did not hear my voice; he was
gazing toward the field with an expression on his face to which no
human speech could render justice. He knew what was coming. It could
not be denied him in that moment.

How confidently young Burt stood up to the plate! None except a
natural hitter could have had his position. He might have been Wagner
for all he showed of the tight suspense of that crisis. Yet there was
a tense alert poise to his head and shoulders which proved he was alive
to his opportunity.

Duveen plainly showed he was tired. Twice he shook his head to his
catcher, as if he did not want to pitch a certain kind of ball. He had
to use extra motion to get his old speed, and he delivered a high
straight ball that Burt fouled over the grand stand. The second ball
met a similar fate. All the time the crowd maintained that strange
waiting silence. The umpire threw out a glistening white ball, which
Duveen rubbed in the dust and spat upon. Then he wound himself up into
a knot, slowly unwound, and swinging with effort, threw for the plate.

Burt's lithe shoulders swung powerfully. The meeting of ball and bat
fairly cracked. The low driving hit lined over second a rising
glittering streak, and went far beyond the center fielder.

Bleachers and stands uttered one short cry, almost a groan, and then
stared at the speeding runners. For an instant, approaching doom could
not have been more dreaded. Magoon scored. Cless was rounding second
when the ball lit. If Burt was running swiftly when he turned first he