WINNING A VICTORY
Frank was right, one of the two substitute players to go forth was
really Mark, and he had run across the diamond to fill the important
position mentioned.
The explanation of this state of affairs is very simple. On being
introduced to the player from Rochester Mark had discovered that he had
met the fellow before, and a long talk on baseball matters followed.
Then Mark was introduced to the captain of the team, who told of the
way they were handicapped with only one substitute player, two others
having disappointed him, and of the fact that the second baseman was
liable to give out at any moment.
After the muff already mentioned the second baseman refused to play
longer and had to be excused. Then came the accident at the home plate
and the team found itself short a man.
“I’ll fill that place,” came from Mark. “I think I can give
satisfaction. Anyway, I’ll try my best.”
“Give him the chance,” came from the Rochester player, and so it was
decided, the captain thinking he could remove Mark at the end of one
innings if the youth proved “a stick,” as he put it.
It was natural for the boys to give a cheer, and they did so with
a will, even Professor Strong joining in, for he was almost as
enthusiastic as anybody. Mark heard and saw them and waved his hand. He
had slipped on a player’s suit, as well as a cap and a pair of baseball
shoes and, to use Frank’s words, “he looked the real thing.”
But there was one in the crowd who did not fancy the turn affairs had
taken. I doubt if there is need to state that this was Hockley.
“Humph! so he has wormed his way in with them,” he muttered. “I hope he
loses the game.”
The ardor of the Americans among the spectators was considerably
dampened when the two substitutes appeared. With the score a tie and
only three more innings to play it was felt that the Roosevelts would
have to put forth their very best efforts in order to win.
The seventh inning was over in remarkably short order. There was but
one base hit, made by the Cubans, and this runner “died” at third. Mark
had next to nothing to do at second, nor did he come to the bat. But
the other substitute came to the plate, and when he “fanned the air”
for three strikes a deep groan went up.
“The subs are no good! Might as well give up the game!” cried some of
the hasty ones.
In the next inning the Cubans managed by good luck to score two runs.
In this inning Mark might have put one of the runners out at second,
but the ball was thrown so high up that only his finger tip touched it.
Yet this counted as an error for him and the other players looked far
from pleased.
“I knew it,” muttered Hockley to Sam. “He can’t play--he isn’t in
practice.”
“Jake Hockley, you ought to be ashamed!” retorted Sam, and then turned
his back on the lank youth.
With the score 8 to 6 in their favor the Palmas came to the bat for the
last time. One man went out on strikes and the next on a foul. Then
came the third, a heavy-set fellow, who “lined it out” straight for the
pitcher.
It was a “hot” ball, far too hot for that pitcher to take, even in a
last inning, and he hardly made a move for it. But Mark made a leap,
and almost before the spectators realized what was up, he held the
sphere in his left hand and the umpire had called “out!”
“Hurrah!” yelled Frank. “That’s the stuff!” And the others followed in
a cheer, while Professor Strong’s face wore a broad smile. This game of
ball made him feel a good deal like a boy again.
“Two runs to tie the score and three to win the game,” said more than
one player of the Roosevelts as they took their positions at the
“bench.” “Oh, we must get together and do something. We can’t allow
these Cubans to win the series.”
The first player to the bat was the left fielder. He was usually
counted a careful hitter and nobody was surprised when he reached first
base in safety. But the others were sorry he had not made third, or at
least second.
There followed an out on strikes and aided by a short passed ball, the
runner reached third, taking desperate chances. Then came a short hit
which took the batter to first by “fielder’s choice,” the ball being
thrown in to cover the home plate. But the man on third was wise and
stayed there.
“Hilgard to the bat, Robertson on deck!” sang out the scorer, and
Mark’s heart gave a thump. Was it possible that the result of this game
was to depend upon him?
In another moment he knew, for Hilgard went out on strikes, amid a mad
yelling from the Cubans. There were now two out, so the whole result of
that contest rested upon Mark’s shoulders.
“You must do it, Mark!” yelled Frank, at the top of his lungs. “Go in,
old boy, and win! Whoop her up for old Lakeview!” And then the others
took up the cry, that is, all but Hockley, who, true to his nickname,
remained as glum as ever.
When Mark stepped up to the home plate it was with a determination to
“do or die” right then and there. He grasped the ash stick firmly,
planted his feet and took a good, hard hold of his nerves.
The Cuban pitcher eyed him curiously. He was a “new proposition” and
the pitcher hardly knew how to handle him. He stepped back, gave the
catcher a sign, and delivered a swift out curve. Mark let it go by.
“Ball one!” called the umpire.
“That’s right, take your time!” yelled Frank. He was standing up and
so was everybody else in the stand.
In came the ball again and this time Mark struck at it but missed.
“Strike one!”
A loud yelling went up from the Cubans.
Mark took a firmer grip than ever. It must be confessed that he was
in an agony of mind. What if he should “fan out?” He was certain that
club would never forgive him. And he was equally certain that he should
never forgive himself.
And then came a ball waist high and directly over the plate, a
beautiful ball, and just where Mark wanted it. Around came the bat in
one swift drive. There was a crack, and the ball went sailing down into
deep center field.
On the instant the crowd in the stand were yelling like so many demons
and Frank was dancing up and down as if he had suddenly gone crazy.
Mark had reached first--he was already on his way to second, and still
the center fielder was chasing after that ball, which kept bouncing on
and on just out of his reach. One runner crossed the home plate and the
second followed almost on his heels. The catcher was yelling and so
was the captain of the Palmas but nobody heard them. Mark, his breath
coming thick and fast was fairly leaping through the air on his way to
third. Here the baseman made a feint as if to catch the ball and Mark
ducked and slid in to the bag.
“Go on! Go on!” yelled the coach, and a hundred others, and Mark
glanced back, to see that the fielder was just picking up the ball. How
he got to his feet he never knew, but off he started for home, amid a
yelling that was louder than ever. He came over like the wind, to sink
exhausted near the “bench,”--and then the ball came in.
The game was won!
“Hurrah for Mark!” Frank fairly screamed, and made a wild leap into
the field, followed by Sam and Darry, and even the professor, and in
another moment the enclosure was black with people. All the Americans
were shouting loudly, while the Cubans had but little to say.
“He must be a first-class professional,” said one Cuban.
“Nothing of the kind,” retorted Frank, who heard the remark. “He is
only an academy player. He never played on a professional team in his
life.”
The players on the Roosevelt nine were not slow in congratulating
Mark, and had he allowed it they would have carried him around the
field on their shoulders. But Mark was too modest for this, and as soon
as possible escaped to the dressing room.
“Oh, say, but it was great!” burst out Darry, as he wrung Mark’s hand.
“Better than anything I ever saw at Lakeview.”
“You fairly lifted the crowd off its feet with that home run,” put in
Sam. “Even the professor was yelling like a senior.”
“Was I?” the question came from Amos Strong himself, who stood behind
Sam. “Well, I fancy the game was worth it,” he added, but looked rather
sheepish for a second.
The Roosevelts insisted upon giving Mark a supper that night (since he
had refused to accept part of the gate money for his services), and a
good time was had until late in the evening. Frank accompanied Mark,
and during that festive hour the lads made several warm friends.
“But the Cubans played a good game,” observed Darry, to Sam, while
they and Hockley and the professor were waiting for Mark and Frank to
return. “It was nip-and-tuck from start to finish.”
“That hit by Mark was a fluke,” grumbled Hockley. “I’ll bet a thousand
dollars he can’t do it again.”
“Perhaps it was a fluke,” returned Sam, dryly. “But, just the same,
Glummy, you’ll never have such a fluke happen to you;” and then Sam
turned his back on the bully.
Hockley sauntered off to his sleeping apartment all out of sorts both
with himself and everybody around him.
“After this they’ll be more stuck on themselves than ever,” he growled.
“And they won’t want anything to do with me. But never mind, I’ll fix
them yet, see if I don’t!”