The score now stood four to three in favor of the Catalpas, and as “The Lily” sagely remarked, “It’s anybody’s game.” The home club tried every possible maneuver to increase their lead; but all was in vain. The contest was now drawing to a close, and the least bit of luck falling into the hands of the visiting nine would carry them so far ahead that defeat would be inevitable for the Catalpa club. Hart Stirling, John Brubaker, and Hiram Porter, the first three strikers for the home club, went out very quickly in the order named. Then the Calumets came to the bat with high hopes of securing at least the one run needed to bring them up to an even score with their adversaries. But they, too, were doomed to disappointment. John Handy, Rob Peabody, and Tom Shoff were put out in “one-two-three order,” so skillful was the fielding and so accurate the throwing of Larry Boyne, Hart Stirling, and Al Heaton.
“The last inning! The last inning!” cried Miss Alice, gleefully clapping her hands, “and the Catalpas are first at the bat with a lead of one to their credit! Oh, I do hope that Albert will make a run! I know he will! Look at him where he stands! Isn’t he handsome, Aunt Anstress?”
Miss Anstress Howell turned her cool glance in the direction of the Diamond Field, and looking at Albert, said that she was not sure whether a young man could be called good-looking in those singularly ill-fitting and peculiar clothes that ballplayers wore; but she was interested in the game, as a whole, she said, without any special interest in the players as individuals. She took in the performance without any thought for the men who carried it forward. “You are a kind of overseeing providence, Anstress?” said the Judge.
While they were talking, a murmur, only a murmur, of conversation swept around the crowded enclosure, and everybody seemed to be saying to his neighbor that this was the conclusive and crucial moment in the struggle. All eyes were intent on Al Heaton, and even grown men held their breath, as, with close tension of every nerve, they watched the movements of the players in the field. Tom Selby, attended by his faithful satellite, Mike Costigan, who had a holiday, gazed with admiring eyes at his demigod, Albert Heaton, and so still was the air, now soft and warm and dimmed by the lustrous October haze, that one might have heard a leaf drop, as Bill Van Orman eloquently expressed it, afterwards.
Albert patiently waited for a good ball, and when he saw one come, at last, he sent the sphere out of the reach of Glenn Otto and placed a base hit to his credit. Next came “The Lily” who hit the very first ball pitched, for two bases, and, with a volley of ah‑h‑h‑s following him, sent in Al Heaton to the home plate. Larry came next in order, and pretty Alice Howell felt a quickening of her pulse and her color glowing as she saw the resolute and sturdy figure of the favorite of the club shouldering his bat and striding to position. Larry made a safe hit to the right field, sending in “The Lily,” and securing his own base. Sam Morrison was put out at first while Larry shot to second base. Then Neddie Ellis went out on a fly to Rob Peabody, and Charlie King ended the inning for the Catalpas, by striking out, leaving Larry on third base, to which he had stolen meanwhile.
The Catalpas now had a lead of three, and the Calumets came to the bat with lugubrious faces. “But I have seen sicker children than this get well,” was Captain Ayres’s philosophical remark, as Glenn Otto went to the bat for the visiting club.
The Catalpas went to the field with an elation which they could hardly conceal, and with a tolerably firm belief in their victory. They handled the ball with a dexterity almost unexampled, even for them, and speedily put a damper on any hopes that the Calumets might have cherished. Glenn Otto went out on a fly to John Brubaker. Jamie Kennedy was thrown out at first base by Hart Stirling, and Charlie Webb ended the game by hitting a hot ball to Larry Boyne who made a lightning throw to first base, before any of the spectators could see what had become of the ball, so swift and agile were his motions.
A great cheer burst forth from the multitude. The umpire superfluously cried “Game” in the midst of a deafening uproar, and, as the two captains advanced towards each other to clasp hands, the Catalpas, relieving their pent-up enthusiasm with a wild yell, swooped down upon Larry Boyne, whose brilliant play had terminated the game, and, seizing him bodily, carried him above their heads, shouting “Hurrah for the ‘Curly-headed Cat!’ ” as they swung around and round the Diamond Field. Men and boys whooped and shouted, women waved handkerchiefs and parasols, and numberless small boys shrilly added to the din. Truly it was a great day for Catalpa.
For a moment, Alice could not trust herself to speak. And when, with unsteady voice, she responded to her father’s delighted comments, he looked at her with surprise and said,
“Why, Alice, my child, I believe you are crying!”
“For joy, papa,” was all she said. Just then, the lads, still carrying Larry, with flushed face and sparkling eyes, his curly hair ruffled by his unwonted treatment, surged towards the Judge’s carriage. Alice extended
