LIL ARTHA PLANTS HIS GARDEN IN DEEP CENTER.
"CRACK!"
"He did it!" yelled the Hickory Ridge fellows, as Toby started on a run
for the first sack, while Bastian was chasing the ball in short right.
"Bully boy, Toby! You're IT!" shrieked an excited rooter, jumping up and
down as he swung his hat, and ending by dancing a hornpipe, to the
amusement of some of the crowd, though a disgusted Cramertown fellow
loudly advised him to "hire a hall."
"Now Lil Artha, you know what to do!" called a fellow near by.
"Does he!" echoed Larry Billings, waving his hand at the speaker. "Well,
just keep your eye on him, that's all. Oh, it's good-by to that ball.
It's going over into the next county!"
The tall captain of the Hickory Ridge nine stood at the plate in what
some people considered a careless attitude.
"Why, he doesn't seem to care whether he hits the ball or not," they
declared. "I think Matt Tubbs ought to have a snap with that bean pole!"
But every batter has his favorite way of waiting for the ball. Some
swing their bats nervously, and often fail to recover in time; others
stand there like statues, with every nerve contracted, and their eyes
fixed on the pitcher.
Lil Artha did neither. He chopped at the tuft of short grass near the
rubber, nodded at Tubbs, and then slouched there in his ungainly
attitude. But Matt Tubbs was not deceived in the least. He knew that in
Lil Artha he had the most dangerous batter in the entire nine to contend
with. His movements were like lightning, once he started.
One, two, three balls followed in rapid succession.
"Hey, he's afraid of Lil Artha! he's goin' to give him his base!" arose
the shout.
It looked very much that way, and Lil Artha himself feared that he was
about to be cheated out of his chance for that little garden beyond
right center. Those agile Fairfield fellows must be thinking that triple
plays grow on bushes; and the pitcher was hoping to have another pulled
off.
"Smash!"
"Oh, what a hit!"
"He leaned way out, and took a wide curve right on the nose!"
"Look at her go, would you!"
"A home run hit, fellows; bully for Lil Artha! He's all to the good!"
"What would he do if he was twice as tall, hey, tell me that?" demanded
a disgusted Fairfield backer, as he watched the two figures careering
around the circuit.
"Watch him run, boys! Why, he could get home ahead of Toby. There they
come in, neck and neck!"
"But where's the ball?" demanded one fellow.
"McDowd is chasing it yet. He'll get it after a while. There never was
such a long hit made on these grounds, that's dead sure. It was a
peach!"
Two runs looked pretty big in such a bitterly contested game.
"Even if we don't get another, that ought to win, if Elmer can keep up
his fine work," Mr. Garrabrant declared, as he sat in the midst of his
boys, and shook hands with the tall panting first baseman as he dropped
down.
"Then we've just got to work to hold them, see?" said Red, who was
picking out a hat, as Chatz had stepped cut to the rubber.
"Oh, don't got that notion in your heads, boys," laughed Elmer. "Perhaps
we can add a few more for good measure. Matt may be rattled after those
two screamers. Try and hit her out, Red."
But Matt Tubbs instead of being upset by his misfortunes seemed better
than ever. He easily disposed of Chatz; and while Red did get on first
through an error of the shortstop, who threw wide, he died there. Ty
shot up a zigzag foul that Ballinger managed to just grasp, after
staggering back and forth like a drunken man in the effort to judge its
eccentric motions; and Matty's offering was taken by Cook in left field.
So the seventh began. The Fairfield rooters, faithful to their team,
began to call out encouraging words, such as the "lucky seventh."
McDowd started out well. He drew a pass by refusing to try to take the
slow one that just failed to cross over the rubber. Then he stole
second, though Mark got the ball down to Red in good style; but a great
slide saved the runner, according to the umpire, who was on the spot.
There was no protest against the decision, even though most of the
Hickory Ridge players thought the man was fairly out. They were much too
game to show that they could not take their medicine when the decision
went against their side.
Elmer put on a little more speed.
"Hey!" called out Mulligan as he stood there and heard a strike called:
"what're ye thryin' to do wid me, Elmer? Sure that wan had whiskers on
it: I heard 'em brush past me leg. Thry it again, me honey, and see what
I do."
He tried to bunt the next one, but made a failure of the job; for Elmer
had readily guessed that such must be his orders, with that man on
second.
So Mulligan passed away, being fed one of the teasers that he tried to
meet by stepping forward, but without the slightest success.
Next came Ballinger, the catcher. Like most men behind the bat,
accustomed to seeing all manner of balls coming toward men throughout
the whole game, Ballinger was a fairly good man with the stick. He
believed he could pick out a good one, and do something worth while.
His best was a high fly that Ty gathered in away out in deep center; but
after the ball settled in his hands McDowd managed to make third, again
by a slide, at which he seemed particularly clever.
It was now up to Matt Tubbs. Adopting the tactics of his rival when Lil
Artha was at bat, Elmer sought to pass the hard-hitting pitcher of the
Fairfields. He had given two balls when Matt reached out, and took one
that was intended as a wide curve.
It shot past Matty near second, and went buzzing out into the field.
Even then it was tagged with so much speed that before it could be sent
in home McDowd had scored, and Tubbs was nestled on the second bag.
Then arose a fearful roar. If only Wagner had found his batting eye he
would surely send his captain home with the tying run.
"Lucky seven, Felix! You know what we want! Everybody holler!"
Such a terrible racket as ensued. Of course part of this came from
excitement; but there was also a desire to put heart in the Fairfield
players, as well as to rattle Elmer.
He showed no sign of going to pieces. His manner would indicate that he
was as cool as a cucumber. Wagner was dancing around the home plate,
trying to tantalize the opposing pitcher.
"Strike one!" called the umpire, as a good one whizzed past.
"Get up against it, Felix. Quit your kiddin', and do business. It only
takes one to bring Matt in!" shouted a player.
Wagner now toed the mark, and prepared to strike. The shouts died away
as quickly as they had sprung into existence. All eyes were on the
pitcher, and the lad who stood there, lazily swinging his bat forward
and back in regular rhythm, as he endeavored to gauge the coming
delivery of the ball.
Judgment at such a critical time has to come with the rapidity of
lightning. In the flash of an eye the batter has to decide whether it is
a drop, an out curve, an inward shoot, a straight, swift one over the
rubber, or a teaser that will apparently start out well, only to hold up
in mid-air, and leave him to strike long before the ball gets within
reaching distance.
Wagner waited and struck at a slow drop. What was more, he hit it, too,
a vicious tap that electrified the entire crowd. Again those who were
sitting down jumped up to see what had happened. They evidently expected
to see one of the fielders running like mad after the ball. Nothing of
the sort.
Red simply threw out, and touched Matt Tubbs as he tried to get back to
second in great haste, after realizing that the ball had been shot
straight into the hands of short.
It was, of course, a double play, unassisted. And tumultuous cheers
followed as the Hickory Ridge boys came trotting in from the field.
Nothing would do but that Red must take off his cap, and thus
acknowledge the fact that the fickle populace wished to do him honor.
In their half of the seventh the Hickory Ridge fellows made another hard
bid for a run. Elmer, the first man up, drove the first ball pitched out
in right for a single. Mark duplicated the performance, only he seemed
rather to fancy the left garden for his planting.
Two on bases, and none out! Catcalls and groans marked the disgust of
the rooters who wanted to see Fairfield win, while loud cheers told the
club at bat that their friends expected them to add to the score this
inning.
But that wizard Tubbs was at it again. He mowed Ted down without mercy.
The batter afterward declared that the ball went past him with wings on
it; and that he couldn't make sure whether it passed over the rubber or
two feet outside.
Toby had been fairly lucky in meeting the offerings of Matt; but he,
too, fell a victim. Meanwhile the fellows on bases, much as they wanted
to engineer a double steal, found not the slightest chance to do so,
with this clockwork going on between the pitcher and catcher.
Lil Artha was up again.
Would he duplicate his previous performance, and send out a homer?
McDowd evidently feared as much, to judge from the way he went back. But
Lil Artha fooled them all, for he dropped a little one between first and
second, and while nobody got home on the hit, he managed to gain first
through the fumble.
Chatz had a glorious opportunity presented to him. A hit would mean two
more tallies. Chatz tried his best, and connected with a good one. With
the crack of the bat the crowd uttered a thrilling shout. Then they saw
Poole, playing just off first, gather the ball in with astonishing
cleverness, and leap for his bag.
In the eighth it was just one, two, three for Fairfield. Elmer bad them
guessing all the time with his curves, his change to a swift one, and
then that terrible teaser that only one fellow had as yet managed to
connect with, and that to his side's undoing.
Nor were the Hickory Ridge boys able to add more runs in their half,
four batters only facing Tubbs.
The ninth opened. Unless Fairfield could score one run to tie, the game
would end then and there, the Hickory Ridge fellows having no need to go
in again.
It was a tense situation when, with one man on second, and but a single
fellow out, Elmer stood up to his work, smiling, cool and satisfied that
he could do it, with the fine assistance he was receiving from his
backing.
In vain did the next batter try to connect. One little foul was the best
he was able to do. That brought it to the last one, who chanced to be
the hard-hitting catcher, Ballinger.
A dead silence fell upon the crowd as Elmer began to feed him slow ones.
Once Ballinger struck, and was greeted by a whoop from the excited
Hickory Ridge rooters, anxiously watching every move. The next one he
declined to touch; and lo, it went over the plate for a second strike.
Rendered desperate finally, and seeing still a third floater coming
sailing wabblingly along, Ballinger stepped forward and made a vicious
swing for it, only to have his bat pass through thin air.
Then arose a tumultuous whoop. The game was over, and the score stood
two to one in favor of Hickory Ridge.
While the shouts of the multitude were still ringing out, Elmer made
straight for the rival pitcher, and thrust out his hand.
"Bully for you, Matt," he said. "It was so even that one little thing
settled it--that home run hit. And if you haven't won this game, Matt,
it's plain to be seen you've won another that counts for much more. I
say good luck to the scouts of Fairfield. They're going to make things
hum around here, I guess."
"That's nice of you, Elmer," returned Matt, quietly, yet with a gleam of
satisfaction in his eye. "Somebody's got to lose, and next time it may
be you fellers. But I reckon as how Fairfield people knows by now that
things has changed some since these here games used to break up in a
row. Never again. We're in this scout business for keeps now, and you
got to look out, Elmer, if you don't want us to beat you when the two
troops get together for tests."