he
throw.

The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumbling down. For a moment the
air was full of deafening sound. Then came the pause, the dying away
of clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspended quiet. Spears' clear
voice, as he coached Rube, in its keen note seemed inevitable of
another run.

Ashwell took his stand. He was another left-hand hitter, and against a
right-hand pitcher, in such circumstances as these, the most dangerous
of men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captain knew it, as showed
plainly in his signal to catch Rube at second. But Spears' warning
held or frightened Rube on the bag.

Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwell could not be coaxed.
Wearily Vane swung; the shortstop raced out to get in line for a
possible hit through the wide space to his right, and the second
baseman got on his toes as both base runners started.

Crack! The old story of the hit and run game! Ashwell's hit crossed
sharply where a moment before the shortstop had been standing. With
gigantic strides Rube rounded the corner and scored. McCall flitted
through second, and diving into third with a cloud of dust, got the
umpire's decision. When Stringer hurried up with Mac on third and Ash
on first the whole field seemed racked in a deafening storm. Again it
subsided quickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans had been crushed too
often of late for them to be fearless.

But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense ended. I was like a man
clamped in a vise. Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with the
sprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm and slowly edged off
first. Stringer waited for one strike and two balls, then he hit the
next. It hugged the first base line, bounced fiercely past the bag and
skipped over the grass to bump hard into the fence. McCall romped
home, and lame Ashwell beat any run he ever made to the plate. Rolling,
swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feet could not down the high
piercing sustained yell of the fans. It was great. Three weeks of
submerged bottled baseball joy exploded in one mad outburst! The fans,
too, had come into their own again.

We scored no more. But the Bisons were beaten. Their spirit was
broken. This did not make the Rube let up in their last half inning.
Grim and pale he faced them. At every long step and swing he tossed
his shock of light hair. At the end he was even stronger than at the
beginning. He still had the glancing, floating air