The High School Pitcher Part 40

d.i.c.k let drive with his most tantalizing spitball. The leather fell down gracefully under the Wayland's batsman's guess, and Purcell mitted the ball.

"Strike one!"

A hopeful cheer went up from Gridley seats, to be met with one word from Wayland fans:

"Wait!"

d.i.c.k served the second ball. Swat! There it went, arching up in the air, a fair hit. As fast as he could leg it went Holmes after it, and with good judgment. But the ball got there before Greg did. In a twinkling, the young left fielder had the ball up and in motion. Tom Reade caught it deftly at second, and wheeled toward first. But the runner saw his error in leaving first, and slid back in season.

Turning back, with his lips close together, d.i.c.k tried a new batsman.

Two strikes, and then the visitor sent out a little pop-over that touched ground and rolled ere Harry Hazelton could race in and get it, driving it on to first base.

"Safe at first," called the umpire, and the other Waylander had reached second.

"O-o-o-h!"

"Don't let 'em have it, d.i.c.k---_don't_!"

The wail that reached his ears was pathetic, but Prescott paid no heed. He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators.

He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the f.a.g-end of the game.

The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher's wrist, but d.i.c.k nerved himself for better efforts. Despite him, however, a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the bases were full.

"_O-o-oh, d.i.c.k_!"

It was a wail, full of despair. Though he paid no direct heed to it the sorely pressed young pitcher put up his left hand to wipe the old sweat out of his eyes. His heart was pounding with the strain of it. d.i.c.k Prescott, born soldier, would have died for victory, _just_ then. At least, that was what he felt.

The Wayland man who now stood over the plate looked like a grinning monkey as he took the pitcher's measure.

"Go to it, d.i.c.kson---kill the ball!" roared the visiting fans.

"Just a little two-bagger---that's all!"

d.i.c.k felt something fluttering inside. In himself he felt the whole Gridley honor and fame revolving during that moment. Then he resolutely choked down the feeling. The umpire was signaling impatiently for him to deliver.

d.i.c.k essayed a jump ball. With a broadening grin d.i.c.kson of Wayland reached for it vigorously. He struck it, but feebly. Another of those short-winded, high-arched pops went up in air.

There was no hope or chance for Hazelton to get to the spot in time---and Wayland's man away from third was steaming in while Purcell made the home plate at a bound.

d.i.c.k raced---raced for all he was worth, though his heart felt as if steam had shut down.

Across the gra.s.s raced Prescott, as though he believed he could make history in fifths of seconds.

In his speed he went too far. The ball was due to come down behind him.

There was no time to think. Running at full speed as he was, Pitcher d.i.c.k rose in the air. It looked like an incredible leap---but he made it. His hands pulled the slow-moving popball down out of the air.

Barely did d.i.c.k's feet touch the ground when he simply reached over and dropped the ball at Purcell.

The captain of the Gridley nine dropped to one knee, hands low, but he took the leather in---took it just the bare part of a second before the Waylander from third got there.

For an instant the dazed crowd held its breath just long enough to hear the umpire announce.

"Striker out! Out at home plate. Two out!"

Then the tumult broke loose.

For an instant or two d.i.c.k stood dizzy just where he had landed on his feet.

Umpire Davidson came bounding over.

"Do you want to call for a relief pitcher, Prescott?"

"No---Wayland pitched all through with one man!"

Back to the box marched d.i.c.k Prescott, but he took his time about it. He had need of a clear head and steadier nerves and muscles, for Wayland had a man again at third, and another dancing away from second. There was plenty of chance yet to lose.

"Prescott ought to call you out," whispered Fred Ripley to Dave.

"And I'd get out there on the dead run, just as you would, Rip.

But you know how d.i.c.k feels. Wayland went through on one man, and d.i.c.k's going to do it if he lives through the next few minutes!"

While that momentary dizziness lasted, something happened that caused the young pitcher to flush with humiliation. Sandwiched in between two strikes were called b.a.l.l.s enough to send the new batsman to first, and again the bases were full. One more "bad break" of this kind and Wayland would receive the tie run as a present. And then one more---it would be the High School pitcher handing the only lost game of the season as a gift to the visitors!

d.i.c.k braced himself supremely for the next man at bat.

"Strike one!"

It wasn't the batter's fault. A very imp had sat on the spitball that Prescott bowled in.

"Strike two!"

The batsman was sweating nervously, but he couldn't help it.

d.i.c.k Prescott had fairly forced himself into the form of the first inning. But it couldn't last.

Gink! It was only a little crack at the ball, struck rather downward.

A grounding ball struck the grit and rolled out toward right infield. There was no shortstop here. The instant that Prescott took in the direction he was on the run. There was no time to get there ahead of the rolling leather. It was d.i.c.k's left foot that stopped it, but in the same fraction of a second he bent and swooped it up---wheeled.

Wayland's man from third base looked three fourths of the way in. Captain Purcell, half frantic, was doubled up at the home plate.

Into that throw d.i.c.k put all the steam he had left in. The leather gone from his hand, he waited. His heart seemed to stop.

To half the eyes that looked on, ball and runner seemed to reach the home plate at the same instant. The umpire, crouching, squinting, had the best view of all.

It was an age before d.i.c.k, with the mists before his eyes, heard the faraway words for which thousands waited breathlessly:

"Out at home---three out!"

Three disheartened base runners turned and slouched dispiritedly toward the dressing rooms.