The High School Pitcher Part 31

"Strike two!"

"It's all over."

Crack! Greg was off like a colt. Running was in his line. He had swatted the ball somewhere over into left field, and he didn't care where it landed. Gardiner's left field was forced to pick up the leather.

Greg didn't know that anyone had the ball. He didn't care; he had to make first, anyway.

He kicked the bag, turning for the second lap. Then he saw the sphere coming through the air, and slid back.

"Runner safe on first!"

Gridley, with its nerve always on hand, felt that there was a ray of hope. The good, old, strong and fierce school yell went up. The soprano voices of the girls sounded high on the air.

Now Dan Dalzell came up to the plate, bat in hand. Dan hadn't hit a thing during the afternoon, but he meant to do so, now.

It was either that or the swan-song!

"Strike one!---" a groan came from Gridley, a cheer from Gardiner.

But Dan was not in the least confused. He was ready for the next ball.

_Biff_! It was the pistol shot for Greg, who was off like a two-legged streak, with Dan, ninety feet behind but striving to catch up.

The ball came to first only a quarter-second behind Dan's arrival.

"Both runners safe!"

"Oh, now, _Purcell_!"

The man now hovering over the plate knew he simply _had_ to do something.

He was captain of the nine. He had caught like a Pinkerton detective all afternoon, but now something was demanded of his brain and brawn.

"Strike one!" called the umpire, with voice that grated.

"Good-bye!"

"Strike two!" came again the umpire's rasping tones.

Even now Gridley fans wouldn't admit cold feet, but the chills were starting that way.

Crack!

"Whoop!" Then the battle-cry of Gridley rose frantically from all the seats---Purcell had made first base.

"Prescott!"

"It's yours!"

"_Don't_ fall down!"

Schimmelpodt, a wealthy old German contractor, rose from his seat, shouting hoa.r.s.ely:

"Bresgott I gif fifdy tollars by dot Athletic Committee bis you win der game vor Gridley!"

The offer brought a laugh and a cheer. Schimmelpodt rarely threw away money.

d.i.c.k, smiling confidently, stood bat in hand.

Most other boys might have felt nervous with so much depending on them. But d.i.c.k was one of the kind who would put off growing nervous until the need of steady nerves was past.

It was always impossible for him to admit defeat.

The game stood two to nothing in favor of the Gardiner nine, but Gridley had bases full.

d.i.c.k's help might not have been needed for all the uneasiness that he displayed.

There was no pallor about his face, nor any flush. His hands grasped the willow easily, confidently.

"Strike one!"

Prescott had missed the ball, but it failed to rattle him.

"Strike two!"

The boy was still undaunted, though he had lost two chances out of the three.

Again he tried for the ball.

Swis.h.!.+ It was a foul hit, out sidewise. Gardiner's catcher darted nimbly in under the ball.

Home fans groaned.

As for d.i.c.k, he didn't turn his head to look. Catcher had the ball in his fingers, but fumbled it. It slipped.

"Hard luck," muttered the standing Gardiner fans, waiting to give their final cheer of victory.

d.i.c.k's next sight of the ball was when it sailed lazily over his head, into the hands of the man in the box.

"I hope d.i.c.k is bracing," groaned one of Gridley's subs.

"He isn't," retorted Dave Darrin. "He's just on the job, steady as iron, cool as a cuc.u.mber and confident as an American."

Gardiner's pitcher measured his man critically, then signaled the next ball.

It came, just as d.i.c.k, closely watching the pitcher, expected it to come, a swift, graceful out-curve.

_Bang_!

At least it sounded like a gunshot. d.i.c.k Prescott struck the ball with all his might. He struck with greatest force just barely below the center of the sphere.