DALE'S CHANCE
To Tompkins, watching with bated breath and clenched fists, it seemed as
if the ball would never drop. Two of the fielders were running swiftly
backward, but there wasn't a chance in a hundred of their catching
it. Bat flung aside and toe-clips digging into the ground, Blake was
speeding toward first. Before the ball hit the turf he had rounded the
sack. By the time Pete Oliver had recovered it and lined it in, the
runner was panting on second.
"Got him going! Got him going!" shrieked Conners, delightedly. "Get after
it, Peanut. Smash it on the nose and bring in Blakie!"
His team-mates added their jubilations to his, and a bedlam of shrill
advice, mingled with fresh joshing, ensued. Ranny's eyes flashed with
ill-concealed anger, and he gripped his under lip tight between his
teeth. His first ball was good, but the batter fell on the second
with all his might. _Crack!_ A gasp went up from the watchers on the
bench. _Smack!_ The gasp merged into a yell of delight as the ball
landed squarely in Frank Sanson's mitt and stuck there. The force of the
impact nearly upset the short-stop, but he recovered swiftly and lined
the horsehide straight into the outstretched hands of Court Parker,
astride of third. There was a flashing downward motion of those hands,
and the sliding runner was tagged, his fingers not six inches from the
sack.
To the shout of delight that went up, Dale Tompkins contributed
rather more than his share. Leaping and capering in front of the bench,
it seemed as if he couldn't express his overwhelming relief at the
unexpected ending of the inning and their escape from a dangerous
situation. He thumped Sanson on the back and poked Court in the ribs
joyously. But when the first excited enthusiasm had passed he began to
think of the inning yet to be played and to wonder how Ranny would
get through it. Surely there was time to pull himself together, the
boy thought. He hadn't really lost control of himself except for a moment.
With the opening of the ninth it looked as if Tompkins was right. Troop
Five had failed to score further, but Ranny entered the box apparently
as cool and self-contained as he had been at the beginning of the game.
Quietly and efficiently he took the first batter in hand, and in spite
of the joshing that at once began on the other side, he lured the boy
into popping up a little infield fly that was easily smothered by the
second baseman.
The next fellow up, however, sent out a long fly to right-field which
Blair unaccountably muffed. Instantly the shrill, nagging voice of "Red"
Conners pierced the din.
"Up in a balloon!" he yelled. "Little Lambie's ready for the stable.
He's done. I knew he couldn't stand up before a regular team once we
got his number."
Irritating as a mosquito's buzz, the strident voice rasped Dale
Tompkins's spirit like a file, and a rush of sympathy for the pitcher
swept over him. He knew how annoying it is to be blamed for another's
fault, and the error was distinctly Blair's for muffing that fly. If
only Phelps wouldn't pay any attention to the nagging! He had only to
put out two more men and win the game. Surely he must realize that
the fellows didn't mean anything they said; that they were only trying--
He caught his breath with a swift, anxious intake as the ball left
Ranny's fingers and an instant later went sailing over the infield. It
was a clean hit and brought forth a roar of delight from Troop One's
adherents, who at once redoubled their efforts to tease the angry
pitcher. It wasn't baseball, in its better sense, nor did it show
the real scout spirit, but it was human nature. Seeing the game slipping
from them, they took the only way they had been able to discover to turn
the tables. Ranny, plainly furious, pitched hastily to the next batter
and hit him in the arm. The bases were filled, with only one out.
"They've rattled him, all right," said the regretful voice of Paul
Trexler at Tompkins's elbow. "Great Scott! He can't be going to stick it
out!"
For a moment it looked that way. Flushed and furious, his snapping eyes
sweeping the circle of grinning faces, Ranny stood motionless for a
moment or two in the middle of the diamond. He even toed the slab and
took a signal from Ted MacIlvaine. Then, of a sudden, his arm dropped to
his side, and he stalked across the infield toward the bench. By the
time he reached it his face was white, save where the grip of teeth had
left little crimson dents in his under lip. His level, almost hostile,
glance fixed Dale Tompkins coldly.
"Go in, Tompkins," he said curtly, and tossed him the ball.
Dale caught it instinctively, and, scrambling to his feet, pulled off
his sweater mechanically. His chance had come, but somehow he did not
want it now. He would infinitely rather have had Ranny keep his head and
his control and finish the game he had started off so well. The hurt and
shame in that white face smote on him with a sense of physical pain,
made him feel in a curious, involved fashion as if he were in some manner
responsible for the humiliation of his hero.
A moment later all this vanished from his mind as he crossed the diamond,
his heart beating unevenly, every sense concentrated in the task before
him. He was greeted by a burst of joshing from Conners and the others,
but he scarcely heard it. Quite without self-consciousness as he was,
the remarks of the crowd, with most of whom he was on friendly terms,
meant nothing to him. It was merely an obvious attempt to rattle him to
which he paid no heed, so intent was he on gaging the boy who stood, bat
in hand, a little to one side of the plate.
Tompkins had warmed up a little before the game, and now, after throwing
a few to MacIlvaine, he found the plate and nodded to the batter to
resume his place. All the afternoon he had been sizing up the different
batters, noting as well as he could the strength and weakness of each
one. He thought he knew the sort of ball Jack Dillon could not hit
safely, and promptly he proceeded to send it up.
In that very instant something in the fellow's face told him that he had
blundered. His heart leaped with the crack of leather meeting wood; he
caught his breath almost with a sob as the ball whizzed past his vainly
reaching arm. There was no answering thud behind him. Bob Gibson had
missed! Heartsick, he saw the runner shoot down from third and cross the
plate. Close at his heels, it seemed, the fellow behind him rounded
the sack and started home. Suddenly he doubled back, and Dale realized
with a gasp of thankfulness that Gardner had nipped that second run
with a fine throw to the plate from center-field.
He was trembling a bit as he caught the ball from MacIlvaine and moved
slowly backward, turning it nervously in his hands. There was a sick,
sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. All about him the opposition
were yelling joyously as if it were only a question of minutes before
the game could be counted theirs.
"Another easy mark!" shrilled Conners. "We've got him going, too. One
good single, Irish, and we take the lead. Come over here, Blakie, and
coach. I'm up next."
Dale brought his teeth down hard and his jaw squared. He'd show Red
Conners who was easy. Stepping into the box, he met the confident grin
of Roddy Thorpe. This time there could be no mistake. He knew Roddy's
game through and through. His eyes dropped to where MacIlvaine crouched,
giving a signal from behind his mitt. He shook his head slightly, and
Bob, with some reluctance, changed the signal for another. Dale pitched
suddenly, and Thorpe, swinging with all his strength to meet the sort
of ball he thought was coming, missed, with ludicrous dismay.
He fouled the second one, and then let two go by. Finally he missed
again, fooled by a sudden change of pace and a slow ball when he had
expected speed. A cheer went up from his team-mates that still further
heartened Tompkins.
"Who's an easy mark now, Red?" taunted Frank Sanson, pounding his glove
delightedly. "Here's where you get yours, too."
"I should worry!" retorted Conners, dancing to the plate with every sign
of confidence. "That was only a fluke; it won't last."
Dale's eyes narrowed a bit as he surveyed the grinning, freckled face
before him. Ordinarily, he and Red were on good enough terms, but at this
moment he felt a slow, smoldering anger against the fellow who, he felt,
had been the main cause of forcing Ranny out of the box. "Here's where
I even up," he muttered.
He took Bob's signal, and promptly, yet without apparent haste, he
pitched. The ball left his fingers and whistled over with a slight
inswerve. Conners swung his bat fiercely, but encountered nothing but
empty air.
"One!" muttered Tompkins, under his breath. "Two more, now--just two
more!"
The next was a ball, and Conners let it pass. Then came a slow one
delivered with a swing and snap that fooled the batter into striking
before it was well within his reach. As he regained his balance he
scowled slightly and shook his head. The grin still stretched his lips,
but it had turned into a grimace.
Dale's heart began to pound. Over and over again he was saying to
himself: "One more! Only one more! I _must_ get him--I've _got_ to!"
Silence had fallen on the field. The batter's team-mates had left off
their gibing. It seemed as if every fellow gathered about the edges of
the diamond was holding his breath.
Dale's right hand drew back slowly, and for an instant he cuddled the
ball under his chin. Then, like a flash, his arm shot forward and a gray
shadow whizzed through the air.
The ball was high--too high, many a breathless onlooker thought at first.
But suddenly it flashed downward across Conner's shoulders. Too late
the batter saw it drop and brought his bat around. There was a swish, a
thud--and the umpire's voice was drowned in the shrill yell of relaxing
tension that split the throats of the victorious team as they made a
rush for Tompkins, standing in the middle of the diamond.
Sanson and Bob Gibson reached him first, but the others were not far
behind. Thumping, pounding, poking him in the ribs and executing around
him an impromptu war-dance, they swept Dale toward the bench, jabbering
excitedly the while. In a happy sort of daze the boy heard the hearty
congratulations of Mr. Curtis. Then, when the throng had spread out a
little, he suddenly found himself face to face with Ranleigh Phelps.
For a second there was an embarrassed silence; then the blond chap put
out his hand.
"You did mighty well, Tompkins," he said, with a touch of constraint
in his manner. "I wish--" He paused an instant, and a faint color crept
into his face. "I'd just like you to know," he went on rapidly, "that I
haven't kept you out of the box all season because--because of--wanting
to take all the pitching myself. I--I--didn't think you'd make good. I
was wrong, of course. I--I'm sorry it's too late to--prove it to you."
That was all. Without waiting for a reply, he turned away. But Dale's
face glowed. Somehow those brief words from Ranleigh meant more to him
than the exuberant congratulations of all the others.