THE CRUCIAL MOMENT

On the bleachers Roy Hooker breathed easier. “Len Roberts certainly told the truth,” he thought. “Sanger is a crackerjack pitcher.”

“What did you say?” asked a fellow at Roy’s elbow.

“I?” gasped Hooker, startled. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I thought you did. I thought I heard you mutter something about Sanger. That fellow has developed, hasn’t he? But we’ll get onto him yet. When these strike-out twirlers go to pieces, they’re liable to blow up completely. The boys will pound him before the game is over.”

“I hope they do,” fabricated Roy.

“If Springer only keeps steady,” continued his seatmate, “it will be all right; but I’m just a little bit afraid of Phil, for he lacks the heart to stand punishment. If they get to hitting him well, Eliot will have to try Grant.”

“Grant’s no pitcher,” said Roy.

“I don’t know about that. He hasn’t had any experience, that’s true; but Springer himself has said that Rod’s got the makings of one. Wasn’t that a corking catch he made?”

“It was lucky for Springer.”

Larkins was now up, and he proceeded to wallop the second ball pitched to him, driving it humming down the third-base line for two sacks, which caused the horns and cowbells to break into a tumultuous uproar. Sanger followed, and he straightened out a bender into a whistling line drive to the left of Chipper Cooper; whereupon Cooper made up for his error in the first inning by forking the sphere with his gloved hand and snapping it to Nelson, who leaped on to second and caught Larkins lunging hopelessly back for the sack.

The horns and cowbells were suddenly silent, while the sympathizers with the crimson frantically cheered this beautiful double play.

“Great, Chipper simply great!” cried Springer as soon as he could get his breath.

“Oh, pretty good, pretty good,” returned the little fellow, with mock modesty. “A trifling improvement on my last performance, I’ll admit.”

Tom Cline likewise hit the ball hard, but he lifted it into the waiting hands of Ben Stone, who scarcely moved a step from his position in center field.

“Some people have great luck,” cried Newt Copley, with his eyes on the Oakdale pitcher, who was walking toward the bench. “Wait till the streak breaks, and then we’ll see the airship go up.”

Ben Stone got the first clean hit off Sanger, driving the ball zipping through the infield. Eliot, who followed, signaled that he would bunt, and Stone was well on his way toward second when the Oakdale captain lay a dead one down a few feet in front of the pan. Roger came near turning his attempted sacrifice into a hit, but Sanger managed to get the ball and whip it to first in time to catch the runner by a margin of the closest sort.

“That’s playing the game, all right,” cried Nelson from the coaching line. “Here’s where we score.”

“In your mind,” derided Copley.

Sile Crane, trying hard to bring Stone home, made four fouls in succession, and then struck out.

“Two men, cap,” grinned Copley. “Old Stoney will expire at the second station. Here’s the cowboy; take his pelt, hide, horns and hoofs.”

When Sanger had fooled Grant twice, it began to look as if he really would succeed in “taking his pelt”; but, declining to reach for the decoys, Rod finally met the ball on the trade mark, lining it over the center fielder’s head, after which he made third before he was stopped by the wild gestures and cries of the delighted coacher, Nelson.

Roy Hooker swallowed a lump in his throat. “Why, they’re hitting Sanger!” he muttered huskily.

“Hitting him!” shouted the overjoyed fellow at Roy’s elbow. “They’re hammering him for fair. Told you they might do it.”

“But he’ll brace up,” said Roy. “He’s got to brace up.”

“Let’s hope he won’t till the fellows put this game on ice. Here’s Cooper. He’s not a strong batter, but Oh, gee! look a’ that! Look a’ that! A Texas leaguer! That scores Grant!”

Indeed, Chipper had bumped a Texas leaguer over the head of the second baseman, who made a desperate but futile effort to reach the ball; and Oakdale had every reason to cheer as Rodney Grant easily scampered home from third.

Sanger really seemed to be off his feet, and Sleuth Piper, trying for a hit, drove two fouls into the crowd on the bleachers.

“Straighten ’em out a little, Pipe,” pleaded Cooper, returning for the second time to first. “You’ve got my tongue hanging out now.”

Copley, squatting, signaled for a straight ball. Sanger, apprehensive and nervous, shook his head. Copley promptly repeated the signal, and insisted on it. Finally Sanger obeyed, putting one straight over.

Sleuth swung at that straight one, his heart full of confidence, but he missed it cleanly. In a moment he was raging at the catcher, who had promptly snapped off his mask and tossed it aside.

“Somebody will break your head if you try that again,” snarled Piper.

“What’s the matter with you?” flung back Copley belligerently. “You’ve got bats in your belfry.”

“You’ll have a bat across your belfry if you repeat that trick,” threatened Sleuth stiffly. “That’s all I’ve got to say. Don’t you touch my bat again when I’m hitting.”

Copley laughed derisively at the excited words of the slim, angry, pale-faced fellow; and the umpire, not having seen the catcher’s prestigious interference, was unable to penalize the offender.

His anxiety somewhat relieved by this termination of the home team’s batting streak, Roy Hooker looked around for Rackliff, and discovered Herbert coolly sauntering down beside the ropes toward first base. As if he felt the attraction of Roy’s glance, the city youth turned his head and smiled in an undisturbed manner, which was doubtless intended to convey his unshaken confidence in the ultimate outcome of the game, and really did much to soothe and reassure his agitated friend.

As Oakdale took the field, Copley was seen speaking hurriedly to Len Roberts, who was to lead off at bat in the third. Roberts, listening, nodded, and his face was contorted by that crooked grin which always seemed trying to pull his crooked nose back into its proper place. Then, as he stepped into the box, he shot a glance toward the standees back of first, who had pushed out close to the ropes, among whom Herbert Rackliff was carelessly lighting a cigarette.

“Never mind, Barville,” called Herbert in a low, yet singularly distinct, tone of voice, while Eliot was signaling to Springer. “The game is young, and I’ll bet you’ll win. That’s straight.”

Eliot’s past experience with the visitors had taught him that Roberts rarely sought for a hit unless forced to do so, being the kind of a batter who preferred to wait and walk whenever he could; therefore the Oakdale captain signed for Springer to put the first ball over.

Barely had Sile Crane flung over his shoulder the words, “Aw, go lay down!” directed toward Rackliff when, to the surprise of very many beside Eliot, Roberts landed hard on Springer’s straight one, driving it toward center field. Fortunately, Stone had little trouble in reaching the ball and catching it.

“Hard luck, Len,” sounded the voice of Rackliff, as Oakdale’s burst of applause died down. “Hit ’em where they ain’t; that’s the way. Here comes the huckleberry now,” he added, as Berry, the visitors’ shortstop, took the place of Roberts. “He’ll hit it out.”

“This Berry will be picked in a moment,” cried Cooper instantly. “He’s ripe. Get him, Springer.”

Crack! Berry planted the willow against Phil’s outcurve, and again the ball sailed toward the outfield, this time going toward right. Again the fielder had no trouble in reaching it ere it fell to the ground, and Grant scooped and held it while running lightly forward.

“He hit it out, sure enough,” chortled Cooper. “Rack, you’re ruined financially busted wide open.”

Still Herbert seemed unruffled, continuing to smile. “If I lose,” he said, “I can stand it.”

“But I can’t,” muttered Roy Hooker beneath his breath.

Springer, knowing Dingley, Barville’s leading batter, who was again up, was dangerous, tried two wide ones to start with; but the fellow did not even wiggle his bat at them.

“Get into it!” called Rackliff suddenly, as Phil swung into his delivery for the third ball.

Dingley seemed to fall back from the plate a little, and again bat and ball met squarely, an inshoot being sent humming over the head of Cooper, who made a ludicrously ineffective jump for it, the ball passing at least ten feet above his outstretched hand. But Piper, leaping forward and speeding up surprisingly, made a forward lunge at the last moment, and performed a shoestring catch that brought the entire Oakdale crowd to its feet with a shout of wonderment and delight.

Eliot calmly removed the catching mask and swung the body protector over his head. “Royal support, Phil,” he observed, as Springer trotted happily toward the bench.

“The greatest ever,” returned Phil. “If they can only keep it up ”

“You’ll do your part, all right,” assured Roger. “Every fellow can’t hit you the way those three did. Now, boys, we’ll lead off with the head of the list. Let’s get after Sanger again.”

But apparently Sanger had recovered his best form during the brief rest on the bench, for again he fanned Nelson and Barker; and, although Springer hit the ball, it was an easy roller to the Barville twirler himself, who confidently and deliberately tossed Phil out at first.

In the meantime, one or two indignant Oakdaleites had gone at Herbert Rackliff and driven him away from the ropes back of first base, Herbert resenting their remarks concerning his loyalty, and rather warmly asserting that he had a right to bet his money according to the dictates of his judgment.

In the fourth Springer’s work justified the confidence Eliot had expressed, for he followed Sanger’s example by striking out Pratt and Whiting and forcing the dangerous Copley to hit weakly to the infield.

“Another goose egg for them,” exulted Chipper Cooper. “It begins to look like a shut-out. These two tallies of ours may be a-plenty.”

“You don’t want to get any such an idea into your head,” returned Eliot promptly. “Two runs are mighty few; we must have more. Here’s Old Stone, who started us going before.”

Stone started it again with a cracking two-bagger, and, when Eliot poked a daisy cutter into right, Ben scored on it.

The efforts of the coachers to put Sanger off his feet, however, were fruitless, Crane fanning, Grant expiring on a foul which Copley took thirty feet behind the pan, and Cooper perishing in an effort to beat a slow grounder to first.

With the beginning of the fifth Rackliff again called encouragement to the batters, having strolled back to the ropes a little further down beyond first base. He urged them to “get into it,” “hit it out,” “drop on it,” “give it a rise,” and, as if braced by his cries, they began slaughtering Springer mercilessly. Sanger singled; Cline poked one past Cooper; and Roberts, once more surprising everybody by smashing the first ball, doubled and brought both runners home.

And now once more Springer’s nerves were a-quiver in every part of his body. In his disturbed state he actually swallowed the chew of gum he had procured. Rattled, he hit Berry in the ribs, and handed Dingley a pass, filling the bases.

“It’s all off! It’s all over but the shouting!” yelled Sanger, dancing and waving his arms on the coaching line near third. “Got him going, fellows! Don’t let up! Here’s where we win the game!”