It was the beginning of the ninth inning of the first game in Fairhaven and the home team was one score ahead. The visitors had made a gallant fight for the game which was not yet ended. Indeed, Maplewood had not given up, as soon became apparent.
On previous occasions crowds had gathered on that field, but never before in the history of Fairhaven had there been such a wonderful turnout to witness a game of baseball. Not only was every seat taken, but on each side of the ground ropes had been stretched far down past first and third bases in order to keep those standing from crowding onto the field. Even then it was necessary to employ four officers to hold the spectators back and prevent them from pushing into the outfield.
Through all the game the stonecutters had whooped and cheered to their satisfaction. Although they were boisterous, they were not ungentlemanly in their language. Indeed, they were rather generous in their applause whenever Maplewood made a brilliant play. For all of that, they were intensely loyal, and, to the last one of them, were eager and anxious for Fairhaven to win.
At intervals the voice of Brick McLane could be heard above the others, but sometimes it was quite drowned.
High on the top of the bleachers, clinging to a post of the fence, was old Gideon Sniffmore, who occasionally waved his crooked cane in the air and shrieked until his face grew purple. All through the game he had remained standing there, apparently quite oblivious to his rheumatism, and once or twice, when he relinquished his hold on the post and flourished both arms in the air, he was in absolute danger of falling and breaking his neck.
“We’ve got um now, by codfish!” he shrieked as Owen Bold struck out a man.
This made the second man out.
There were two runners on the bases, one having reached first through an error and the other securing a pass to the initial bag on four balls.
“It’s all over!” roared Brick McLane as the next batter stepped out. “Fairhaven wins the first game!”
Then Bold shot a speedy one, shoulder high, across the inside corner of the plate.
The batter stepped back a bit and met the ball fairly. It was a terrific clout.
Chip Jolliby went flying over the low rail which served as centre-field fence and splashed into the frog pond in search of the ball. He had seen it strike, and his heart was in his mouth for fear he could not find it amid the tall grass and weeds.
However, Chip secured it and turned with it dripping wet, in his hand, seeing the Maplewood player who had hit it already dashing over third base.
Standing out there at that great distance, Jolliby made one of the most amazing throws of his whole baseball career. He was ankle deep in the mire, yet he lined the ball straight to the plate, and Buckhart put it onto the man who was endeavoring to slide home.
This astounding throw caused the crowd to roar again, although almost every spectator realized what had been accomplished by the hit.
The batter had driven in two runs, which placed Maplewood ahead, the score being eight to seven.
“We’ve got them now!” muttered Benton Hammerswell, in relief. “Bretton will hold them right where they are. At the very best, they can take but one of these two games, and, therefore, I will win all my bets.”
Hammerswell was leaning on a bat as he muttered this. He felt a touch on his arm and turned to see Tom Fernald.
“It was a relief to me when that fellow smashed the ball over the fence,” he said. “I’ve been betting even money that Maplewood would carry off one of the games. Some lobsters were foolish enough to bet that Fairhaven would win both.”
“Yes, we’ve got this game now,” nodded Hammerswell. “And it’s a good thing for me, too. It puts me on my feet again. I’ve risked all I could rake and scrape on the result of these games. Unless the improbable happens, Fairhaven will not be at the top to-night, nor will Maplewood be at the bottom.”
“Have you figured the thing over?” questioned Fernald. “Have you consid............