Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball Part 18

White rose dizzily to his feet, but Flynn lay there, still and crumpled.

His mates and some of the opposing team ran to him and bore him to the bench. It was a clean knockout, and several minutes elapsed before he regained consciousness and was a.s.sisted from the field, while Ames, a subst.i.tute outfielder, took his place. Tom had regained the ball in the meantime and held Gunther at second. The umpire called "play" and the game went on.

But a subtle something had come over the Blues. An accident at a critical time like this was sure to be more or less demoralizing. Their nerves, already stretched to the utmost tension, were not proof against the sudden shock. Both the infield and outfield seemed to go to pieces all at once. The enemy were quick to take advantage of the changed conditions.

Gunther took a long lead off second, and, at a signal from his captain, started for third. Hinsdale made an awful throw that Tom only stopped by a sideway leap, but not in time to get the runner. Menken sent a grounder to White that ordinarily he would have "eaten up," but he fumbled it just long enough to let the batter get to first, while Gunther cantered over the plate for their first run of the game amid roars of delight from the frantic rooters. It looked as though the long-expected break was coming at last.

The next man up struck out and the excitement quieted down somewhat, only to be renewed with redoubled fervor a moment later, when Halley caught a low outcurve just below the waist and laced it into center for a clean double. Smart fielding kept the man on first from getting further than third, but that seemed good enough. Only one man was out and two were on bases, and one of their heaviest batters was coming up.

Bert looked him over carefully and then sent him deliberately four wide b.a.l.l.s. He planned to fill the bases and then make the next man hit into a double play, thus retiring the side.

It was good judgment and Ainslee noted it with approval. Many a time he had done the same thing himself in a pinch and "gotten away with it."

As Bert wound up, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Halley was taking a long lead off second. Quick as lightning, he turned and shot the ball to White, who ran from short to cover the base. The throw was so true that he could easily have nailed Halley, as he frantically tried to get back. But although White had pluckily insisted on being allowed to play, his head was still spinning like a top from the recent collision, and a groan went up from the "Blue" supporters as the ball caromed off his glove and rolled out to center. The three men on bases fairly burned up the base lines as they galloped around the bags, and when Ames' hurried return of the ball went over Hinsdale's head to the grand stand, all the bases were cleared, and the score stood four to three in favor of the home team. It had all occurred so suddenly that the visitors were in a daze, and the home nine itself could hardly realize how quickly the tables had been turned.

For a moment rage took possession of Bert. What was the matter with the fellows anyway? Why were they playing like a bunch of "Rubes"? Did they expect him to win the game all by himself? Was the victory to be s.n.a.t.c.hed away just as it was within sight? Were these jubilant, yelling rooters, dancing about and hugging each other, to send him and his comrades away, downcast and beaten? Were they to "laugh last" and therefore "best"? And the fellows hundreds of miles away, gathered at this moment around the bulletin board of the dear old college----

No! No! A thousand times, no! In a moment he was himself again--the same old Bert, cool, careful, self-reliant. He stooped down and pretended to tie his shoe lace, in order to give his comrades a moment to regain their self-possession. Then he straightened up and shot a beauty right over the plate. The batter, who had been ordered to wait and take advantage of Bert's expected case of "rattles," let it go by. Two perfect strikes followed and the batter was out. The next man up dribbled a roller to the box and Bert threw him out easily. The inning was over, and Bert had to take off his cap to the storm of cheers that came from the "Blue" supporters as he walked to the bench.

Ainslee scanned him carefully for any sign of collapse after this "baptism of fire." Where were the fellow's nerves? Did he have any? Bert met his glance with an easy smile, and the coach, rea.s.sured, heaved a sigh of relief. No "yellow streak" there, but clear grit through and through.

"It's the good old fadeaway from now on, Wilson," he said as he clapped him on the back, "usually I believe in letting them hit and remembering that you have eight men behind you to help you out. But just now there's a little touch of panic among the boys, and while that would soon wear off, you only have two innings left. This game has got to be won in the pitcher's box. Hold them down and we will bat out a victory yet."

"All right," answered Bert; "I've only used the fadeaway once or twice this game, and they've had no chance to size it up. I'll mix it in with the others and try to keep them guessing."

Drake and d.i.c.k made desperate attempts to overcome the one run advantage in their half of the eighth. Each cracked out a hot single, but the three that followed were unable to bring them home, despite the frantic adjurations of their friends to "kill the ball."

Only one more inning now, one last chance to win as a forlorn hope, or fall fighting in the last ditch.

A concerted effort was made to rattle Bert as he went into the box, but for all the effect it had upon him, his would-be tormentors might as well have been in Timbuctoo. He was thoroughly master of himself. The ball came over the plate as though shot from a gatling gun for the first batter, whose eye was good for curves, but who, twice before, had proved easy prey for speedy ones. A high foul to the catcher disposed of him.

Allen, the next man up, set himself for a fast one, and was completely fooled by the lazy floater that suddenly dropped a foot below his bat, just as it reached the plate. A second and third attempt sent him sheepishly back to the bench.

"Gee, that was a new one on me," he muttered. "I never saw such a drop in my life. It was just two jerks and a wiggle."

His successor was as helpless as a baby before the magical delivery, and amid a tempest of cheers, the Blues came in for their last turn at bat.

Sterling raised their hopes for a moment by a soaring fly to center. But the fielder, running with the ball, made a beautiful catch, falling as he did so, but coming up with the ball in his hand. Some of the spectators started to leave, but stopped when White shot a scorcher so hot that the second baseman could not handle it. Ames followed with a screaming single to left that put White on third, which he reached by a desperate slide. A moment later Ames was out stealing second, and with two men out and hope nearly dead, Bert came to the plate. He caught the first ball pitched on the end of his bat and sent it on a line between right and center. And then he ran.

How he ran! He rounded first like a frightened deer and tore toward second. The wind whistled in his ears. His heart beat like a trip hammer.

He saw as in a dream the crowds, standing now, and shouting like fiends.

He heard d.i.c.k yelling: "Go it, Bert, go it, go it!" He caught a glimpse of Tom running toward third base to coach him in. He pa.s.sed second. The ground slipped away beneath his feet. He was no longer running, he was flying. The third baseman tried to block him, but he went into him like a catapult and rolled him over and over. Now he was on the road to home.

But the ball was coming too. He knew it by the warning cry of Reddy, by the startled urging of Tom, by the outstretched hands of the catcher.

With one tremendous effort he flung himself to the ground and made a fallaway slide for the plate, just touching it with his finger tips, as the ball thudded into the catcher's mitt. Two men in and the score five to four, while the Blues' stand rocked with thunders of applause.

"By George," cried Ainslee, "such running! It was only a two base hit, and you stretched it into a homer."

The next batter was out on a foul to left, and the home team came in to do or die. If now they couldn't beat that wizard of the box, their gallant fight had gone for nothing. They still had courage, but it was the courage of despair. They were used to curves and rifle shots. They might straighten out the one and shoot back the other, but that new mysterious delivery, that snaky, tantalizing, impish fadeaway, had robbed them of confidence. Still, "while there was life there was hope,"

so----

Ainslee and Reddy were a little afraid that Bert's sprint might have tired him and robbed him of his speed. But they might have spared their fears. His wind was perfect and his splendid condition stood him in good stead. He was a magnificent picture of young manhood, as for the last time he faced his foes. His eyes shone, his nerves thrilled, his muscles strained, his heart sang. His enemies he held in the hollow of his hand. He toyed with them in that last inning as a cat plays with a mouse. His fadeaway was working like a charm. No need now to spare himself. Ellis went out on three pitched b.a.l.l.s. Hart lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale. Gunther came up, and the excitement broke all bounds.

The vast mult.i.tude was on its feet, shouting, urging, begging, pleading.

A hurricane of cheers and counter cheers swept over the field. Reddy was jumping up and down, shouting encouragement to Bert, while Ainslee sat perfectly still, pale as death and biting his lips till the blood came.

Bert cut loose savagely, and the ball whistled over the plate. Gunther lunged at it.

"One strike!" called the umpire.

Gunther had been expecting the fadeaway that had been served to the two before him, and was not prepared for the swift high one, just below the shoulder. Bert had outguessed him.

Hinsdale rolled the ball slowly back along the ground to the pitcher's box. Bert stopped, picked it up leisurely, and then, swift as a flash, snapped it over the left hand corner of the plate. Before the astonished batsman knew it was coming, Hinsdale grabbed it for the second strike.

"Fine work, Bert!" yelled d.i.c.k from first. "Great head."

Gunther, chagrined and enraged, set himself fiercely for the next. Bert wound up slowly. The tumult and the shouting died. A silence as of death fell on the field. The suspense was fearful. Before Bert's eyes came up the dear old college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowd at this moment gathered there about the bulletin---- Then he let go.

For forty feet the ball shot toward the plate in a line. Gunther gauged it and drew back his bat. Then the ball hesitated, slowed, seemed to reconsider, again leaped forward, and, eluding Gunther's despairing swing, curved sharply down and in, and fell like a plummet in Hinsdale's eager hands.

"You're out," cried the umpire, tearing off his mask. The crowd surged down over the field, and Bert was swallowed up in the frantic rush of friends and comrades gone crazy with delight. And again he saw the dear old college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowd at this moment gathered there about the bulletin----.

Some days after his fadeaway had won the pennant--after the triumphal journey back to the college, the uproarious reception, the bonfires, the processions, the "war dance" on the campus--Bert sat in his room, admiring the splendid souvenir presented to him by the college enthusiasts. The identical ball that struck out Gunther had been encased in a larger one of solid gold, on which was engraved his name, together with the date and score of the famous game. Bert handled it caressingly.

"Well, old fellow," he said, half aloud, "you stood by me n.o.bly, but it was a hard fight. I never expect to have a harder one."

He would have been startled, had he known of the harder one just ahead.

That Spring he had fought for glory; before the Summer was over he would fight for life. How gallant the fight he made, how desperate the chances he took, and how great the victory he won, will be told in

"BERT WILSON, WIRELESS OPERATOR."

THE END