THE GRIT OF THE GRAND OLD GAME
In that half of the inning it was one, two, three---down and out!
Even Fred Ripley found himself gasping with admiration of Prescott's
wonderfully true pitching.
Yet the joy of the home fans was somewhat curbed when Gridley
went to bat and her third man struck out after two of the nine
had reached bases.
So the first inning closed without score. Gardiner had found
that Gridley was "good," and the latter realized that even young
Prescott's pitching could not do it all.
The first five innings went off quickly, neither side scoring.
"It'll be a tie at dark," sighed some of the fans.
"Oh, well, a tie doesn't score against Gridley," others added,
consolingly.
In the five innings Dick Prescott had to run twice. The first
time he was left at first base. The second time he had reached
second, and was cautiously stealing third, when Gridley's batsman,
Captain Purcell, struck his side out on a foul hit.
"How's your wrist holding up?" asked Purcell, in a low tone, as
Dick came in.
"It feels strong.
"Do you think Darrin had better have the rest of the game?"
"Not on account of my wrist."
"But can you run the bases to the end?"
"If it doesn't call for any more running than we've had," smiled
Dick.
Then he caught the ball, held it an instant, signaled, and let
drive. It was the same Gardiner batsman whom Prescott had struck
out at the opening of the game. This time the young giant got
the range of the ball by sheer good guessing.
Crack! It soared. Right field ran backward after the ball.
Now the Gardiner fans were up and yelling like Comanches.
"Leg it, Prendergast!"
The runner touched first bag, then darted on for second. Right
field was still after the ball.
"Whoop! He's pulverized the second bag!"
"Just look at third, old man, and come steaming home over the
plate!"
That runner had been well trained. He was close upon third base
and going with unabated speed.
He kicked the bag---then a warning cry told him that right field
had the ball.
A swift look over his shoulder, and Prendergast fell back upon
third just before the ball dropped into the third baseman's hands.
"Safe on third!" came the umpire's announcement. The ball arched
over to Dick Prescott. Purcell signaled him to let the ball come
in over the plate.
Now the air was all a-tingle. The visitors had a run in sight.
Dick felt the thrill, but steeled himself against any impulsiveness
or loss of nerve. He signaled the drive, then let go. Three
strikes and out, the ball all the while so closely under control
that Prendergast fidgeted but did not dare steal far from third.
Then came Dowdy to the bat. He was far and away the best batsman
from Gardiner. Prendergast began to edge in.
"Strike one!" from the umpire.
Crack! The leather hung low, a little to the left of shortstop,
who raced after it. Prendergast was going in at a tremendous
clip. As shortstop reached the ball, he swooped down on it, stopped
its rolling, and rising quickly, hurled it in across the plate.
Purcell was waiting, and made a good catch. It looked close.
Everyone eyed Umpire Foley.
"Runner safe home," he decided.
There was a gasp of disappointment, but the decision was fair.
Prendergast had made good by a fraction of a second---and there
was a man on first.
"Oh, Dick! Oh, Prescott!" wailed the home fans. "We look to
you."
Dick's answer was to strike the next man out, with never a chance
for the man on first to steal away from Dalzell and make second.
Then a short fly filled first and second. Dick struck out a
second man---then a third.
But this was getting on Gridley's nerves. Despite Prescott's
fine pitching, it began to look as though Gardiner High School
was fitted for getting the only one or two runs that the game
would witness.
In the eighth, Gardiner got a second run, but that inning closed
with Gridley as much "stumped" as ever.
"Why play the ninth?" yelled one of the visitor fans. "Let's
go and drink tea. Gridley boys are nice little fellows, but-----"
"How's that wrist?" asked Captain Purcell, anxiously, as the players
changed places to begin the ninth. Coach Luce had stepped close,
too, and looked anxious.
"Just a bit lame, of course," Dick admitted. "But I'm going to
pull through."
"You're sure about it?" Purcell asked.
"Sure enough!"
The first Gardiner man to bat went out on the third ball sent
past him. Then a second. Now came Prendergast to the bat, blood
in his eye. He glared grimly at young Prescott, as though to
say:
"Now, I'll take it out of you for making a comedian of me the
first time I held the stick!"
Dick felt, somehow, that Prendergast would make good.
The first ball that Prescott put over the plate was a called strike.
At the second serve---
Crack! and Prendergast was running.
Dan Dalzell gauged the flight of that ball better than anyone
else on the diamond. He side-stepped like a flash, falling back
a couple of paces. Then pulling the leather down out of the air,
he leaped back to first. He was holding the ball in his left
hand when Prendergast, breathing fast, hopped at the bag.
"Runner out!" called Umpire Foley. Prendergast stamped back,
with a look of huge disgust. And now Gridley came in at the bat.
"It's no use! We're whipped!" That was the comment everywhere
as Gridley came in from the field prepared for a last effort.
Gridley's first and second men went bad---the first struck out,
and the second knocked a foul bit that was caught.
"Greg, you've got to go to bat next," whispered Dick to Holmes,
just a moment before. "Oh, _don't_ you strike out. Hit something
drive it somewhere. Remember Gridley can't and won't lose! Get
the Gridley spirit soaked into you instanter. Chase that leather
_somewhere_!"
Gardiner's pitcher, his face beaming, faced Holmes, whom he did
not regard as one of the team's heavyweights in batting skill.
Visiting fans were rising, preparing to leave the stand.
"Strike one!"
"There he goes!"
"Strike two!"
"It's all over."
Crack! Greg was off like a colt. Running was in his line. He
had swatted the ball somewhere over into left field, and he didn't
care where it landed. Gardiner's left field was forced to pick
up the leather.
Greg didn't know that anyone had the ball. He didn't care; he
had to make first, anyway.
He kicked the bag, turning for the second lap. Then he saw the
sphere coming through the air, and slid back.
"Runner safe on first!"
Gridley, with its nerve always on hand, felt that there was a
ray of hope. The good, old, strong and fierce school yell went
up. The soprano voices of the girls sounded high on the air.
Now Dan Dalzell came up to the plate, bat in hand. Dan hadn't
hit a thing during the afternoon, but he meant to do so, now.
It was either that or the swan-song!
"Strike one!---" a groan came from Gridley, a cheer from Gardiner.
But Dan was not in the least confused. He was ready for the next
ball.
_Biff_! It was the pistol shot for Greg, who was off like a two-legged
streak, with Dan, ninety feet behind but striving to catch up.
The ball came to first only a quarter-second behind Dan's arrival.
"Both runners safe!"
"Oh, now, _Purcell_!"
The man now hovering over the plate knew he simply _had_ to do something.
He was captain of the nine. He had caught like a Pinkerton detective
all afternoon, but now something was demanded of his brain and
brawn.
"Strike one!" called the umpire, with voice that grated.
"Good-bye!"
"Strike two!" came again the umpire's rasping tones.
Even now Gridley fans wouldn't admit cold feet, but the chills
were starting that way.
Crack!
"Whoop!" Then the battle-cry of Gridley rose frantically from
all the seats---Purcell had made first base.
"Prescott!"
"It's yours!"
"_Don't_ fall down!"
Schimmelpodt, a wealthy old German contractor, rose from his seat,
shouting hoarsely:
"Bresgott I gif fifdy tollars by dot Athletic Committee bis you
win der game vor Gridley!"
The offer brought a laugh and a cheer. Schimmelpodt rarely threw
away money.
Dick, smiling confidently, stood bat in hand.
Most other boys might have felt nervous with so much depending
on them. But Dick was one of the kind who would put off growing
nervous until the need of steady nerves was past.
It was always impossible for him to admit defeat.
The game stood two to nothing in favor of the Gardiner nine, but
Gridley had bases full.
Dick's help might not have been needed for all the uneasiness
that he displayed.
There was no pallor about his face, nor any flush. His hands
grasped the willow easily, confidently.
"Strike one!"
Prescott had missed the ball, but it failed to rattle him.
"Strike two!"
The boy was still undaunted, though he had lost two chances out
of the three.
Again he tried for the ball.
Swish! It was a foul hit, out sidewise. Gardiner's catcher darted
nimbly in under the ball.
Home fans groaned.
As for Dick, he didn't turn his head to look. Catcher had the
ball in his fingers, but fumbled it. It slipped.
"Hard luck," muttered the standing Gardiner fans, waiting to give
their final cheer of victory.
Dick's next sight of the ball was when it sailed lazily over his
head, into the hands of the man in the box.
"I hope Dick is bracing," groaned one of Gridley's subs.
"He isn't," retorted Dave Darrin. "He's just on the job, steady
as iron, cool as a cucumber and confident as an American."
Gardiner's pitcher measured his man critically, then signaled
the next ball.
It came, just as Dick, closely watching the pitcher, expected
it to come, a swift, graceful out-curve.
_Bang_!
At least it sounded like a gunshot. Dick Prescott struck the
ball with all his might. He struck with greatest force just
barely below the center of the sphere.
It was a fearful crack, aimed right and full of steam and speed.
"_Wow_!"
Three base-runners, at the first sound had started running for
all they were worth. Dick's bat flew like a projectile itself,
fortunately hitting no one, and Prescott was running like Greek
of old on the Olympic field.
One man in!
The ball had gone past the furthest limits of outfield. Before
it had touched the ground Dick Prescott touched first and started
for second.
Gardiner right and left fields were running a race with center
field.
The latter was the one to get it, but his two supporters simply
couldn't stand still.
Prescott kicked the second bag. Almost at the same instant the
second man was in.
Score tied!
What about that ball?
It was rolling on the ground, now, many yards ahead of the flying
center-field.
Dick was nearing third, the man ahead of him fast nearing the
home plate.
Centerfield had the ball in his hands, whirling as if on springs.
Third man safe home---Dick Prescott turning the third bag and
into the last leg of the diamond.
Center-field threw with all his might, but the distance was long.
Second base had to stoop for the ball. Even at that, it got past
his hands. He wheeled, bolted after the ball, got it and made
a throw to the catcher.
Out of the corner of his eyes, young Prescott saw the arching
ball descend, a good throw and a true one.
Yet, ere it landed in the catcher's hand, Dick, by the fraction
of a second, had sprinted desperately across the home plate.
"Runner safe home!"
"Whoo-oopee! Wow! wow! wow!" rang the chorus of thousands.
"Four to two!"
"What about Gridley, _now_?"
"What about Dick Prescott?"
Then words were lost in volleys of cheers. The Gardiner fans
who had risen to cheer slipped dejectedly down from the stand.
And Dick Prescott?
While running he had given no thought to his knee.
Now, as he dashed across the plate, and heard the umpire's decision,
he tried to stop, but slipped and went down. He tried to rise,
but found it would be better to sit where he was.
The game was over. Gridley, having made the winning runs in the
last half of the ninth, the rules of the game forbade any further
attempts to pile up score.
One of the first of the great crowd to leap over into the field
and cross the diamond was Coach Luce. He ran straight to the
young pitcher's side, kneeling close by him.
"You've given your knee a fearful twist, Prescott. I could see
it," said Luce sympathetically.
"What do I care?" Dick called back, his face beaming. "The score's
safe, isn't it?"
Had it not been for the state of his knee Prescott would have
been snatched up by a dozen hands and rushed across the field
in triumph. But Mr. Luce waved them all back. Dick's father
and mother came hurrying across the field to see what was wrong
with their boy.
"Let me lean on you as I get up, Mr. Luce," begged Dick, and the
coach was only too quick to help the boy to his feet. Then, with
the aid of Luce's arm, Dick was able to show his parents that
he could walk without too much of a limp.
"You did it for us, Dick, old boy!" greeted Captain Purcell, as
soon as he could get close.
"Did I?" snorted the young pitcher. "I thought there were four
of us in it, with five others helping a bit."
"It was the crack you gave that ball that brought us in," glowed
Purcell. "Gracious, I don't believe that Gardiner pitcher was
ever stung as badly as that before!"
The band was playing, now. As the strain stopped, and the young
pitcher came across the field, leaning now on Dave Darrin's arm,
the music crashed out again into "Hail to the Chief!"
"You see, Purcell. You're getting your share of the credit now,"
laughed Dick. "The band is playing something about a captain,
isn't it?"
In the dressing room Dick had abundant offers of help. Fred Ripley
was the only silent one in the group. He changed his togs for
street clothes as quickly as he could and disappeared. Later,
Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes helped Dick on to a street car, and
saw him safely home. That knee required further treatment by
Dr. Bentley, but there was time, now, and no game depending on
the result.
"Fred, I can't say much for your appetite tonight," remarked his
father at the evening meal.
"Neither can I, sir," Fred answered.
"Are you out of sorts?"
"Never felt any better, sir."
"Being out in the open air all this April afternoon should have
given you an appetite.
"I didn't do anything this afternoon, except sit around in my
ball togs," Fred grumbled.
"I hope you'll have a few good games to pitch this season," his
father went on. "You worked hard enough, and I spent money enough
on the effort to prepare you."
"You can't beat some people's luck---unless you do it with a club,"
grumbled Fred, absently.
"Eh?" asked his father, looking up sharply from his plate. But
the boy did not explain.
Late that night, however, breaking training rules for the tenth
time, Fred was out on the sly to meet Tip Scammon. The pair
of them laid plans that aimed to stop Dick Prescott's career
as High School pitcher.