``Call time,'' I called to Carter.``McCall is done....Myers, you go to left an' for Lord's sake play ball!''
Stringer and Bogart hurried to Mac and, lifting him up and supporting him between them with his arms around their shoulders, they led him off amid cheers from the stands.Mac was white with pain.
``Naw, I won't go off the field.Leave me on the bench,'' he said.``Fight 'em now.It's our game.Never mind a couple of runs.''
The boys ran back to their positions and Carter called play.Perhaps a little delay had been helpful to the Rube.Slowly he stepped into the box and watched Shultz at third and Carl at second.
There was not much probability of his throwing to catch them off the base, but enough of a possibility to make them careful, so he held them close.
The Rube pitched a strike to Manning, then another.That made eight strikes square over the plate that inning.What magnificent control! It was equaled by the implacable patience of those veteran Bisons.Manning hit the next ball as hard as Carl had hit his.But Mullaney plunged down, came up with the ball, feinted to fool Carl, then let drive to Gregg to catch the fleeting Shultz.
The throw went wide, but Gregg got it, and, leaping lengthwise, tagged Shultz out a yard from the plate.
One out.Two runners on bases.The bleachers rose and split their throats.Would the inning never end?
Spears kept telling himself: ``They'll score, but we'll win.It's our game!''
I had a sickening fear that the strange confidence that obsessed the Worcester players had been blind, unreasoning vanity.
``Carl will steal,'' muttered Spears.``He can't be stopped.''
Spears had called the play.The Rube tried to hold the little base-stealer close to second, but, after one attempt, wisely turned to his hard task of making the Bisons hit and hit quickly.Ellis let the ball pass; Gregg made a perfect throw to third; Bogart caught the ball and moved like a flash, but Carl slid under his hands to the bag.
Manning ran down to second.The Rube pitched again, and this was his tenth ball over the plate.
Even the Buffalo players evinced eloquent appreciation of the Rube's defence at this last stand.
Then Ellis sent a clean hit to right, scoring both Carl and Manning.I breathed easier, for it seemed with those two runners in, the Rube had a better chance.Treadwell also took those two runners in, the Rube had a way those Bisons waited.They had their reward, for the Rube's speed left him.When he pitched again the ball had control, but no shoot.Treadwell hit it with all his strength.Like a huge cat Ashwell pounced upon it, ran over second base, forcing Ellis, and his speedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell.
Score 8 to 7.Two out.Runner on first.One run to tie.
In my hazy, dimmed vision I saw the Rube's pennant waving from the flag-pole.
``It's our game!'' howled Spears in my ear, for the noise from the stands was deafening.
``It's our pennant!''
The formidable batting strength of the Bisons had been met, not without disaster, but without defeat.McKnight came up for Buffalo and the Rube took his weary swing.The batter made a terrific lunge and hit the ball with a solid crack It lined for center.
Suddenly electrified into action, I leaped up.
That hit! It froze me with horror.It was a home-run.I saw Stringer fly toward left center.
He ran like something wild.I saw the heavy Treadwell lumbering round the bases.I saw Ashwell run out into center field.
``Ah-h!'' The whole audience relieved its terror in that expulsion of suspended breath.
Stringer had leaped high to knock down the ball, saving a sure home-run and the game.He recovered himself, dashed back for the ball and shot it to Ash.
When Ash turned toward the plate, Treadwell was rounding third base.A tie score appeared inevitable.I saw Ash's arm whip and the ball shoot forward, leveled, glancing, beautiful in its flight.The crowd saw it, and the silence broke to a yell that rose and rose as the ball sped in.
That yell swelled to a splitting shriek, and Treadwell slid in the dust, and the ball shot into Gregg's hands all at the same instant.
Carter waved both arms upwards.It was the umpire's action when his decision went against the base-runner.The audience rolled up one great stenorian cry.
``Out!''
I collapsed and sank back upon the bench.My confused senses received a dull roar of pounding feet and dinning voices as the herald of victory.
I felt myself thinking how pleased Milly would be.
I had a distinct picture in my mind of a white cottage on a hill, no longer a dream, but a reality, made possible for me by the Rube's winning of the pennant,
