“Small chances for our taking the championship this season,” was Ben Burton’s gleeful remark, as the Catalpas took their places on the bench.
“And you seem to be mightily tickled about it,” replied “The Lily,” with an angry glare in his eyes. “If I were as pleased as you seem to be at the drubbing we are likely to get from these chaps, I should expect to be fired out of the club for treachery.”
Van Orman did not stop to hear the reply which Burton, white with wrath, made to this taunt. Seizing his bat, he hurried to the square and faced the pitching of the redoubtable and confident Morse. He waited patiently for a good ball and finally received one. With all his might—which was a great deal—“The Lily” hit the sphere and sent it flying to the left field, where the lithe and agile McWilliams captured it, after a hard run which called forth an involuntary burst of applause from the rapt spectators.
“Hang it all! Just my luck!” muttered Van Orman, as, throwing down his bat, he returned to his seat.
But Larry Boyne, as cool and calm as a spring morning, came next, reassuring his friends and comrades by the mere poise of his handsome figure as he took his place in the batter’s square. Not a word had he said for the past half-hour, and it was plain to see that he keenly felt the defeat that now stared the Catalpas in the face. But he showed no white feather, bearing himself as if it were an everyday occurrence to find himself in so difficult a predicament. Two strikes were called on him in rapid succession; the third ball he struck at and missed and he was consequently retired for the first time during the day for having failed to hit the ball. The tide seemed to be irretrievably running against the visitors, and many of the less interested spectators began to make their way to the exits, saying as they went, that the game was over.
But a little diversion in favor of the Catalpas now took place. Sam Morrison made a long line hit to center field for three bases, and a slight glimmer of hope dawned in the breasts of the sons of Catalpa. The friendly champions of the club, bunched together in the seats, yelled themselves hoarse over this little turn in the game, encouraging their fellow-townsmen in the Diamond Field with all sorts of cheering cries and remarks. Alice Howell, red and white by turns, and sometimes not seeing the field for the unwonted moisture that gathered in her eyes, waved her handkerchief at the boys below, never trusting herself to say a word.
With breathless interest, Neddie Ellis was watched as he ran to the bat and squared himself for a decisive stroke of business. Even the umpire, carried away by the unwonted crisis, forgot everything but the trembling balance of the result of the game. He was brought to his senses by a shouting from the grandstand when he considered a ball was too low to be called a strike, although there were only a few persons who thought to the contrary. Neddie was made a little nervous, naturally enough, by the commotion and the stress of the exigency. He knew that there were some chances of winning now depending on his making a good hit. It was a critical point in the closely contested struggle. He made a desperate lunge at the ball, but Jamie Kennedy was at his post and before the hapless Neddie could realize what had happened, Kennedy had retired him at first base and the game was won for the Calumets.
Then a mighty shout went up from the throats of the assembled multitudes, for, although many had slipped out in time to avoid the press of the departing throngs, those who remained were sufficiently numerous and enthusiastic to create a vociferous uproar. In the midst of this, the two captains met in midfield and shook hands cordially with a few complimentary words from each, as their respective clubs gathered around. Then, the promiscuous cheering in the seats having subsided, the victors gave a rousing cheer, more or less inspired by their own exultant spirits, for their antagonists; and the Catalpas, nothing abashed by their defeat, returned the cheer with great heartiness.
“Meet us at Catalpa,” said Captain Hiram Porter to the captain of the Calumet club. “Meet us at Catalpa, and we will try hard to retrieve the ill fortune of this day.”
It had been agreed that the third and concluding game of the championship series should be played at Catalpa, in case the Calumets should win the second game. So, with a few hurried words relating to a friendly meeting of the captains of the two nines, on the morrow, the players dispersed from the field. This was what might have been read on the bulletin boards as they went along their homeward way:—
Baseball Today
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Catalpas 3 0 1 2 0 0 1 0 0 7. Caluments 3 1 0 0 4 0 0 1 0 9. Runs earned, Catalpas, 4; Calumets, 2.
Base hits, Catalpas, 7; Calumets, 7.
Errors, Catalpas, 5; Calumets, 7.
Umpire, Mr. Mark B. Redmond.
Time of game, two hours and ten minutes.
XIV
A Strange Message from Home
“Well,” cried Neddie Ellis, cheerily, as the nine filed into Captain Hiram Porter’s room, which had been used as a rallying-place, as it was the largest assigned to any member of the club, “well, we have one more chance at the Calumets, and there is hope while there’s life. Hey, Larry?”
Larry did not immediately reply. He was regarding Ben Burton with suspicion. That individual had received a telegram from the hands of a messenger, as he came into the house, which, having read, he tore into very small pieces and threw away with a disturbed expression of countenance. Ben’s eyes were now fixed on Hiram, who, on coming into the room, had noticed on the mantelpiece a telegram addressed to himself. Ben Burton’s face
