“Oh, look, that is two strikes. Harry is keeping his head. Let us watch the game,” and Miss Vane seemed lost in the scene before her.
The ropes along the wings stretched and swung with the mass of humanity leaning over them; in the grand-stand every eye was on the pitcher, as tense as though life itself depended upon the delivery of the next ball.
Harry saw one crooked finger below his catcher’s mitt, and prepared a hot in-shoot. An out and a drop were responsible for the batter’s two previous abortive swats, and this change should fool him. A right hand batter seldom looks for an in-shoot with the bases full; the chance of a walk is so big it frightens most pitchers, but Harry’s catcher had decided on heroic measures.
The base runner from third led up. Standing on his right foot, an inch outside the pitcher’s box, Harry feinted at third and drove the adventurous runner back; the next instant he was back in the box and had delivered the ball to the batter.
But his caution was his undoing. He purposely threw a little wide, to avoid the possibility of striking the batter. Six feet from the base the ball broke and cut straight for the centre of the plate. It was only a fraction of an instant, but in that fraction the batter swung and caught it a straight drive over second. A yell broke from his sympathisers as he dashed for first.
Billy Haynes, the hardware clerk, was holding down second. Billy was long and agile and a rapid thinker. He had the two first requisites of a baseballer—a quick eye and a quick brain. As he saw the hot shot coming four feet above his head he sprang two steps backward, jumped, and brought it to earth, dropping it as he fell. The next instant he had one hand on his base and the other on the ball, and almost before the umpire could detect the play he had thrown, not to home, but first. For an instant the third base runner hesitated, fearing a caught fly, and that instant cost his side the game. He fully expected Haynes would play home, and hesitated again; when he saw the ball delivered to first he dashed forward, but he was too late. The sphere seemed hardly to stop at first at all; it simply changed its course there and shot home, beating the runner to the plate by a good two feet. The game was over. Plainville had won. It was the only triple play seen on that diamond for many a day, and the crowd went wild with enthusiasm. Billy Haynes was borne aloft by his admirers, and the other participants in the play were thumped and shaken by the hero-hungry mob. By dint of much profanity the band leader was able to muster two cornets, a trombone and a base drum to play the National Anthem as the crowd hurried from the grounds. It would soon be closing time at the village bars, and there were many thirsts to liquidate.