"Get what's coming to him," laughed Morris. "I mean the Clearfield chaps will bat him. He can't keep this pace up much longer. I wouldn't be surprised if we got after him this inning."

"Oh, I wish we might!" sighed Louise. "I wish they'd just-just _slam_ him!"

"My dear!" murmured Mrs. Brent. "That doesn't sound very nice."

"It's all right, mama; it's just baseball talk."

"Even so, dear, I'm not certain," replied her mother, "that--"

But Louise didn't hear the rest, for she was waving her purple pennant wildly and shrieking in a manner that Mrs. Brent must have disapproved of thoroughly. But she had a good excuse. Even Mr. Jonathan Brent was tapping his cane and breathing hard, while Morris was frankly on his feet, yelling at the top of his lungs.

Jack, the first Clearfield batsman, had landed on the second ball pitched, and now it was rolling along the gra.s.s between right fielder and center, and Jack was traveling fast for second base. He drew up there, breathless but happy. From the stands and from the crowds along the edges of the diamond came shouts and cheers. At last, Clearfield was to tie the score!

And yet even with a runner on second and only a hit necessary to bring in a tally, it began to look as if once more the hopes of Clearfield's supporters were doomed. Lanny, determined and cool, after waiting until he had three b.a.l.l.s to his credit and no strikes, tried to drop out of the way of a close one, only to have it hit his bat and roll fair! Mason fielded it to first, and there was one out. The incessant shouting from the spectators died away and Gordon, coaching at first, swung on his heel and kicked viciously at a pebble to relieve his feelings. Then, with Pete Robey up, there came an exchange of signals, and Jack started for third as the ball left Mason's hand for the second time. It was an unexpected play, and it succeeded. Pete swung and missed and Houghton side-stepped and hurled to third. But Jack, who was a fast youth on his feet, was diving head-first for the bag when the ball arrived, and Mr.

Vokes, trotting past, spread his hands. Clearfield applauded wildly.

With a man on third, Rutter's Point considered discretion the better part of valor, and Mason pitched out three times to Pete and Pete walked to first, while the home team's supporters jeered and shouted disparaging remarks to Mason. A minute later Pete went to second unchallenged. Tom Haley was up, and Houghton had argued that Tom could be easily disposed of. And it seemed that he could. Tom made desperate swings at the first two deliveries, and you could have heard the sighs of despair that came from the anxious watchers on the seats. Then, heeding the coachers' voices at last, Tom got his eye on the ball and watched idly while Mason sped two wide ones past him. Then he tried again and a foul resulted, Houghton getting his hands on it at the edge of the stand but dropping it. A third ball narrowly escaped being a strike, and Gordon cried: "That's waiting, Tom! Let him walk you; he'll do it in a minute!"

And he would have, for the next delivery was inches wide of the outer corner of the plate, but Tom reached out eagerly, got that ball on the tip of his bat and sent it arching up in a low fly that fell three feet inside the first-base foul line and just out of the reach of the three fielders who raced after it! In trotted Jack, scoring the tying run, and in sped Pete Robey, close on his heels, while Clearfield went mad with delight and the purple pennants waved on high. Pete beat the throw to the plate by inches, but Tom, trying to reach second on the throw-in, was less fortunate and fell victim to a fine heave from Houghton to Leary.

d.i.c.k motioned Fudge to him. "We want another run, Fudge," he said softly. "Mason will be up in the air now. Make him think you're anxious to hit. Move up in the box and swing your bat; try to look nervous--"

"I don't have t-t-t-to try," muttered Fudge.

"Never mind. Make him think you'll offer at anything, but _don't_ swing but once. Pick out a wide one and swing at it, Fudge, but be careful not to hit it. If you work it right, he will pa.s.s you sure as shooting! Now, go ahead."

Harold Townsend, so excited that he hadn't scored a thing since Jack's two-bagger, looked at d.i.c.k in open admiration. "I guess that's what they call 'inside baseball,' isn't it, d.i.c.k?"

"I don't know," was the reply. "It's what I'd call horse-sense. I hope it works, anyhow!"

With two out and the bases empty the scoring was apparently over, and the Pointers were doubtless already occupying their thoughts with the task before them of overcoming that one-run lead when they at last returned to their positions.

"Last man, Mel!" called Billy Houghton. "Let's have him!" Then Billy signaled for a straight one. But Mason, as d.i.c.k had predicted, was a bit fl.u.s.tered. The straight one came over too low and was a ball. He tried it again, and another ball resulted. Houghton returned the sphere with a slow and cautioning toss, and then spread his fingers for a curve. The curve came, went wide, and Fudge, as nervous as a wet hen, made a mighty swing at it, missing it by six inches and winning a laugh from the spectators. Then he walked to the pitcher's end of the box and flourished his bat, and seemed to be daring Mason to put one where he could get it. Houghton signaled for a curve once more, for he figured that Fudge was in a condition to offer at anything that came. And Mason, winding his fingers none too carefully about the ball, let drive with it, and was properly surprised when Fudge made no offer!

Then Houghton woke up. The score was three b.a.l.l.s and one strike. He signaled for one over the plate, and it came. "Strike!" called Mr.

Cochran. On the bench d.i.c.k watched anxiously. If Fudge could get his base, he reasoned, Harry Bryan would be up, and, in the present disgruntled state of mind of the Point players, errors were likely to result. On the mound Mason was shaking his head at Houghton's instructions. He had no doubt that he could put the third strike over, but he preferred to make the batter fan. Houghton signaled again, Mason wound up, and the ball traveled forward. It had a jump on it, if ever a ball did, and that jump was Mason's undoing. Fudge never moved as the ball pa.s.sed him, only turned inquiringly toward the umpire. The latter nodded. "Take your base," he said.

Billy Houghton e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed an amazed "_What?_" and Mason disgustedly kicked up the dust, but Fudge, grinning toward the bench as he pa.s.sed, trotted to first. Rutter's Point suddenly awakened to the fact that perhaps the trouble was not yet over, after all!

Nor was it. Harry Bryan found something to his liking, and banged it head-high across the diamond toward Billings. Caspar knocked it down, fumbled it, and then threw too late to Townsend. Harry was safe on first and Fudge on second. Clearfield yelled like wild Indians, and the crowd swayed and threatened to push on to the field. Then began a panicky five minutes.

Fudge danced around at second and Bryan at first. The coachers shouted and leaped, and the crowd kept up an incessant thumping of feet and a steady roar of voices. Up in the main stand, Mr. Jonathan Brent was hugging his cane and leaning forward from the very edge of his seat.

Louise had her purple pennant twisted into a hard knot, and Morris was talking hoa.r.s.ely to himself or whoever might be listening. "Take a good lead, Shaw!" he directed. "Look out, Bryan! He almost got you! Here we go, fellows! Here we go!" Of course, neither Fudge nor Harry heard him, but Morris never thought about that. Morris was running that game for himself just then.

d.i.c.k whispered a few words to Jack Tappen, and Jack sped to first and whispered a few words to Gordon. And Gordon turned his head inquiringly toward the bench, caught d.i.c.k's emphatic nod, and renewed his shouting.

"What did you tell him, d.i.c.k?" asked Harold, in a low voice.

d.i.c.k smiled. "You wait and see, Harold," he said.

Will Scott was up now, with one ball to his credit. Mason had made three attempts to catch Bryan napping at first, and now he directed his attention to the batsman again. A waister went for a strike, a wide one followed and scored the second ball, and then Mason wound up once more and shot his arm out. And as he did so Fudge leaped away toward third, Bryan sped for second, and a cry of "There he goes!" went up from the visitors' bench. Will Scott glued his eye to that ball, swung and missed it. Houghton made a desperate attempt to cut off the runner at third, but failed, and bedlam broke loose. Mr. Potter knocked the silver trophy off its base in his excitement, and only caught it at the edge of the "press-stand" table. Harold kicked his legs in air and tossed his score-book up. Mr. Anthony Brent nearly broke his walking-stick. Morris challenged everyone within hearing to deny that that was the prettiest double steal that had ever been pulled off. Louise clapped her hands until her palms ached and her white gloves threatened to rip. And some six hundred other folks did whatever it occurred to them to do, and did it just as noisily as they knew how!

d.i.c.k Lovering, Manager of the Clearfield Baseball Club, only smiled quietly and made little marks in his score-book.

A minute later Scott was perched on first base, Mason having been totally unable to locate the plate, and Gordon faced the pitcher. Bases full, two out, and the captain at bat! Well, it was a fine situation, no matter what might come of it. The Point infield crept toward the plate.

Everyone talked loudly to the pitcher, as much, perhaps, to tranquilize his own nerves as to encourage Mason. Mason, it seemed, needed encouragement. He was palpably unstrung, and the first ball he pitched proved it, for it was as wild as a shooting-star, and if Billy Houghton had not leaped sidewise and sprawled on his elbow it would have been by him and let in a run. But Billy stopped it, and Fudge scuttled back to safety at third.

Mason worked a slow ball over for a strike on the next attempt, and that seemed to settle him somewhat. Gordon let one go by and found he had judged it correctly. Then a foul back of first base made the standing two and two. The noise had diminished, and now an almost breathless silence enveloped the field. Only the voices of the coachers were to be heard.

"Oh, come on, Fudge! Take a lead! That's better! Hold it! On your toes, everyone! Look out for a pa.s.sed ball now! Here's where we score a few!"

"Pick out a good one, Cap! Make him pitch to you! Here it is! Here it is!"

But Gordon refused to offer at it, and, "Ball!" announced the umpire.

"It's got to be good, now, Gordie!" yelled Jack. "Lean on it! Lean on it! Make it a homer, Cap!"

Mason wound, unwound, sped the ball toward the plate, bat and ball met and a sudden swelling paean of joy went up as the spectators leaped to their feet and craned their necks. But Gordon, speeding down the first-base line, and the other runners, spurning the dust between bags, slowed up and turned disappointedly back. The hit had gone foul by several yards. A brand-new ball was thrown to the pitcher, and Gordon picked up his bat again, waited until the runners had regained their bases, and then once more faced Mason.

That new white ball looked good to him! What he feared most now was that Mason would pitch a bad one and that he would have to take his base on b.a.l.l.s. To be sure, that would force in another run, but Gordon wanted more than that. Something told him that if Mason put one over he could hit it! Perhaps it would have been well if Mason had sacrificed a run and pa.s.sed the Clearfield captain, but Mason couldn't be expected to know what was to happen. He wanted to strike the batsman out and end a deplorable inning, and Billy Houghton wanted the same thing. And so Billy spread his hands wide and Mason was just a bit more careful than usual and the ball sped forward fast and straight. And Gordon felt his heart jump as he saw what was coming. Every muscle tightened, his bat swung sharply, there was a _crack_ that was easily heard outside the field where an eager army of small boys had their eyes glued to all available cracks and knot-holes, and Gordon was racing for first!

Over Leary's upstretched glove traveled the ball into the outfield. Jim House made a desperate effort to get it on the bound, missed it, whirled and scuttled back toward the fence. It was Pink Northrop, right fielder, who finally recovered it and threw it frantically in to second baseman.

But by that time three joyous youths had crossed the plate and Gordon was sliding, in a cloud of dust, to third. And he might have kept his feet, at that, for poor Caspar, seeing the game slipping away, m.u.f.fed the throw. Gordon had come through with a clean three-bagger! The score stood five to one! The "lucky seventh" had proved itself!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The Lucky Seventh had proved itself"]

The inning ended two minutes later when Way was an easy out, shortstop to first, and Rutter's Point again took up the bat. But four runs was a desperate handicap to overcome, and Tom Haley, encouraged by success, pitched the best ball of his career. To be sure, Rutter's Point did score once more, in the first of the ninth, Caspar Billings slamming out a two-bagger much too hot for Pete Robey to handle and sending Jensen across the plate. And after that Townsend got to first on an error by Will Scott, and the Point, with Gil Chase at bat, tried heroically to pull the game out of the fire by a ninth-inning rally. But Tom was not to be trifled with, and Chase finally went out on a long fly to center, which Fudge, making the most of his second chance of the game, pulled down without a tremor!

And then the band crashed forth into a triumphant march, the stands emptied, the field was flooded with laughing, satisfied spectators, cheers were given and answered, and, surrounded by a dense throng of enthusiastic admirers, Gordon and d.i.c.k and the others tried to hear Mr.

Potter's speech as he presented to them the silver cup and the silken pennant. That speech appeared in full in Monday's _Reporter_, together with three columns of descriptive matter and a detailed story of the game; but no one heard it now.

Five minutes later, d.i.c.k, the trophy held on his knees, sat in the blue runabout, and, with the triumphant Clearfield nine following behind, was paraded thrice around the field, Morris acting as charioteer. And the crowd, loitering behind to miss none of the fun, scuttled aside and cheered and waved purple flags.

Last of all, with a score-book somewhat the worse for wear clutched tightly under his arm, strode Harold, adding his shrill cheers to the general tumult.

CHAPTER XXV

"THE LUCKY SEVENTH"

On a crisp and sunny Sat.u.r.day morning, a fortnight after the game, a blue runabout automobile came quietly and circ.u.mspectly along Troutman Street, under the yellowing maples, and, with two gruff toots of its horn, slowed down and came to a stop in front of the Merricks' gate. As the driver of the car slid the gears into neutral and kicked off the switch at the battery, a look of relief succeeded the somewhat strained and anxious expression he had worn. I think he even sighed his satisfaction as he relaxed his grasp of the steering wheel and looked toward the doorway. Along the running-board on the driver's side of the car lay a pair of crutches, held in place by an ingenious contrivance of heavy wire.

After that, there is no use trying to longer conceal the ident.i.ty of the boy at the wheel. It was d.i.c.k. A week of instruction by Morris and a second week spent in operating alone had made him a fairly competent driver, but he had not yet pa.s.sed the stage where a corner was something to be approached with vast anxiety and to be negotiated with care and deliberation. Every inch of the blue varnished surface of the car shone resplendently, and every particle of bra.s.s was polished until it was painful to view.

Two more blasts of the grumpy horn at last produced results. The screen door flew open, and Gordon, a piece of toast in one hand and a napkin in the other, appeared.