THE THIRD GAME
I placed the ball over the inner corner of the base, Arnold struck it
good and hard, and sent it flying along the ground toward third base.
Quick as a flash Percy Randall picked it up and threw it to first.
“Batter out,” cried the umpire, and the three omnibuses again became
noisy. Two more men were easily disposed of, and we closed our
opponents out without a run.
Thus far the fun had been all our own, while the grand stand had kept
silence. Immediately on leaving the field to take our innings, several
of us ran over to the omnibuses to greet our friends.
“Why were you so late?” I called to Clinton Edwards.
“We drove all the way over――didn’t come by rail, for we knew we
couldn’t hire omnibuses in this hole of a town. We didn’t start early
enough, and I was afraid we were going to miss part of the game. It’s
all right now, so go in and win. We are ‘wid yez.’”
We failed, however, to make a run in our half of the first inning,
three of our men, in succession, succumbing to the skilful pitching of
Arnold. This gave the grand stand a chance, and they responded with a
will. They had recovered from their first surprise by this time, and
settled down to their original plan of shouting us into demoralization.
It was a vain task, however, with those noisy omnibuses opposite.
Clinton Edward’s party paid them back in their own coin every time, and
the effect upon us was proportionately inspiring.
No runs were made on either side in the second inning. In the third
inning their first batter secured a hit, the first one of the game, and
reached his base amid howls from the grand stand. He reached second
through a bad throw of Dick Palmer’s. The next batter then struck a pop
fly up in the air just over short-stop. George Ives stood waiting for
it, when the runner from second base ran full tilt into him, upsetting
him and reaching third base while the ball fell to the ground.
We claimed a foul, but the runner declared that Ives was directly
in his path, where he had no business to be, and the umpire decided
against him. George may have been in the runner’s path, but it was
plainly a trick, for no runner would have attempted to run from second
under such circumstances except with the intention of knocking George
down, as he could only in that way gain third base.
Immediately a warm discussion took place in which the runner became so
actively engaged that he thoughtlessly left his base, and stood several
feet off. Percy Randall noticing this, and having picked up the ball
unobserved by the others, called out,
“Mr. Umpire, have you called time?”
“No,” was the response.
“Then how is that?” asked Percy, quickly touching the runner with the
ball.
“The runner is out!” said the umpire beckoning to him to come in.
Chagrined and mortified, the runner walked sulkily in. The Park men
were badly upset by this clever dodge, for they felt confident of
securing a run, there being no men out, and a man on third. They did
not regain their lost advantage, and we closed the inning with the
score still blank.
From that time on the crowd selected Percy Randall for their special
attention, and sought in every way to disconcert him. They had picked
out the wrong man, however. Percy played away as unconcernedly as if
he heard nothing, and if anything with more than his usual dash and
brilliancy. He was the first man at the bat in the fourth inning, and
the second ball pitched struck him on the arm. He was of course given
his base.
“Now is your chance, Percy,” said Ray. “Get away to second at once.
There are no men out.”
Percy was off like the wind, and reached second base in safety by one
of his phenomenal slides, which of course brought the voices of Clinton
Edwards’ chorus into vigorous play.
I came next to the bat. We had thus far been unable to do anything
with Arnold, who was pitching in magnificent form, and we were
beginning to fear we never could handle him. I watched my chances
carefully, and succeeded in driving a hard ball to the short stop.
Percy Randall purposely made a start toward third, and the short stop,
on picking up the ball, turned to keep him at second. In this way he
lost several seconds――time enough to allow me to reach first base. Then
Ray came to the bat.
“If he will repeat his exploit of Saturday, we will have a great lead,”
I thought.
At the first ball Ray struck hard, driving it well up into the air and
out between left and center field. It was an easy fly to catch, and I
fully expected to see the fielder capture it, so I did not start off
very fast. To my surprise, however, the fielder had not run ten steps
when his foot slipped, and down he tumbled, the ball alighting on the
ground some distance behind him. A loud exclamation of disappointment
escaped the crowd, while Percy and I dashed around the bases; and
before the fielder could pick himself up and get the ball, both of us
scored, and Ray stood on third base.
Our friends went wild with joy, while the Park men were glum and
silent. Before the inning closed, Ray reached home on a sacrifice hit
of Frank Holland’s to right field, and the score stood 3–0 in our
favor. The Park men then bent every nerve to the task of tying the
score.
Foes though they were, I gave them the credit of playing a splendid up
hill game. In the sixth inning they secured one run, and in the eighth
inning another, making the score 3–2. During these innings Arnold’s
work had been exceptionally fine, and we had been unable to make more
than two or three safe hits.
“I’m afraid Arnold is almost too much for us to-day,” said Ray to me.
“Our hope lies chiefly in holding the lead. If we can do so for one
more inning, the game is ours.”
We went into the field for the ninth inning with the determination to
do or die. The first batter was promptly put out by a ground hit which
Ray captured neatly, in spite of the disconcerting howls from the grand
stand. As the excitement had increased during the latter part of the
game, the behavior of the Park men had of course grown more riotous.
In every way they had tried to put us out by their noise, but our
attention was so absorbed in our work that it had scarcely affected us.
The second batter in this last inning reached first on a safe hit, and
was followed by Arnold, who, from the scowl he wore, seemed bent on
knocking the cover off the ball. I was sorry to see him at the bat at
such a moment, for he was a strong batter, and I was pretty well tired
out by my hard work of the afternoon and Saturday. Several balls were
called, and I was compelled to send one directly over the plate. Arnold
saw his chance and took it.
With a sharp crack he sent the ball away out toward right field, and
reached second base in safety, sending the former runner to third. This
made two men out, with runners on second and third bases.
Beard then came to the bat. From the care with which he settled
himself, one could see he appreciated the gravity of the situation.
If he succeeded in making a heavy hit, the chances were that he could
bring in two runs.
At the second ball he struck wildly; and, more by chance than good
judgment, drove it well up into the air toward center field. We all
looked after it with anxious eyes.
“Take it, Page!” cried Ray, as he saw both Lewis Page and Alfred
Barnett run for it. Arnold and the other runner ran around toward the
home plate. The fate of the game, therefore, rested on Lewis Page, who
now stood well under the ball, his hands up, ready to receive it. We
watched its descent in breathless suspense. Downward it shot like a
swallow. Lewis Page’s hands closed quickly about it.
“Striker out,” called the umpire, and the game was over.
Immediately the field was a scene of wild confusion. In a mass, Clinton
Edward’s band of followers, who had been with difficulty suppressing
their excitement, charged across the roadway, shouting and cheering.
Seizing hold of us, they hugged and tore us half to pieces in their joy.
“Boys, it was glorious,” croaked Clinton, in a hoarse voice scarcely
above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. The Crimson
Banner will soon be ours;” and off he went again into a wild fit of
ecstasy, clasping the man who happened to be nearest to him.
Among those pressing around to congratulate Ray I was interested in
seeing Len Howard. I had not noticed him in any of the omnibuses, but
he seemed to be one of the most enthusiastic. The fellows were eager to
carry us off with them, but Ray objected.
“No,” he said. “We have our omnibus, and we must return to the hotel,
for I have to see Beard by agreement after the game.”
“Do you intend driving back to Belmont?” I asked Clinton.
“Certainly,” he answered.
“Then, if you expect to get there before we do, you will have to start
soon, for we go by train.”
“You don’t return till after dinner?”
“No,” I answered.
“Then we will have time. We want to get back before you, so as to
prepare the boys. We must have a bonfire to-night.”
As soon as some measure of order could be restored Clinton got his
crowd together into the omnibuses; and after a farewell round of
cheers, they took their leave, while we drove back to the hotel. The
rest of the spectators had dispersed in angry silence.
“Well, talk about luck!” exclaimed Tony, as he came into the room where
we were changing our suits and packing our things. “How was that for a
close shave?”
“Entirely too close,” answered Ray. “We climbed through a pretty small
hole to-day. One or two more innings, and they might have got away with
us. We won by pure luck, and we haven’t much to boast of. I tell you
what it is, fellows, if we are going to win that Crimson Banner, we
will have to learn how to hit Arnold’s pitching. He had us fairly at
his mercy this afternoon.”
“I don’t think they outplayed us,” said Percy Randall.
“Nor I,” answered Ray, “but they played a stronger game than I
expected, and I didn’t feel at all sure of our success until the last
man was out. I gave a long sigh of relief when Lewis Page gobbled up
that fly ball. All we want to do is to bat stronger. If we can get the
best of Arnold we can beat them any number of times. Batting is what we
need to practise.”
After dinner, Ray, Tony, and I were standing on the hotel piazza where
a number of the students and town men were assembled. Among the former
was Beard, who came forward as he caught a glimpse of Ray’s face. The
result of the game had not improved his disposition. He was morose
and surly. At the first words of the interview, Arnold, who had been
standing a short distance away, came forward and joined us.
“I suppose it would be better to write you concerning the decisive
game,” said Ray, addressing Beard. “I do not feel able at present to
suggest a date.”
“I do not see any reason for a ‘decisive game,’” said Arnold coldly.
“Why, what do you mean?” I asked in astonishment.
“The rules of the League say nothing about decisive games,” answered
Arnold. “We have the Crimson Banner, and we hold it in case of a tie.
We hold it until some other college can win it from us.”
“Mr. Arnold,” said Ray quietly, “the rules of the League say that, in
case of a tie, it can be played off according to any arrangement agreed
upon between the captains of the two competing nines. Allow me to say
that I arranged before the game this afternoon with Mr. Beard, your
captain, that we should play a decisive game at Belmont in case of a
tie.”
“What!” cried Arnold irritably, turning to Beard. “Do you mean to say
that you made any such arrangement?”
“I did,” said Beard, looking away.
“Well, what under the sun did you――Beard, you’ve made a fool of
yourself,” said Arnold.
“As Mr. Beard is captain, and not you, Mr. Arnold, I don’t see what
importance your opinion can be in this interview,” said Ray. “As I
tell you, arrangements for a decisive game have been made. You surely
can have no objections to playing the season to a satisfactory finish.
You must see to what unfavorable criticism your refusal to play would
subject you.”
“We will play you when and where you choose,” said Arnold, turning
angrily on his heel and leaving us.