Though the next four innings were altogether different from one another in batting and fielding, they were exactly alike in that they were all totaled at the bottom of the column, with a large blank goose-egg.

At the opening of the ninth inning even the uncultured members of the crowd—­those unscientific ingoramuses that had voted the game a dull one because no one had made the circuit of the bases—­even these sat up and breathed fast, and wondered what was going to happen.  They had not drawn many breaths before the Kingston catcher rapped on the plate and threw back his bat to knock the stuffing out of any ball that Reddy might hurl at him; and, indeed, his intentions were nearly realized, for the very first throw that Reddy made hit the bull’s-eye on the Charleston bat, and then leaped away with a thwack.

Reddy leaped for it first, but it went far from his fingers.

Next after him Tug went up into the air and fell back beautifully.

And after him—­just as if they had been jumping-jacks—­the center-fielder bounded high and clutched at the ball, but past his finger-tips, too, it went, and he turned ignominiously after it.  If he was running the Charlestonian was flying.  He shot across first base, and on, just grazing second base—­unseen by Tug, who had turned his back and was yelling vainly to the center-fielder to throw him the ball he had not yet caught up with.  On the Charlestonian sped in a blind hurry.  He very much resembled a young man decidedly anxious to get home as soon as possible.  He flew past third base and on down like an antelope to the plate.  This he spurned with his toe as he ran on, unable to check his furious impetus, until he fell in the arms of the other Charleston players on the bench.

And then the Charleston faction in the crowd raised crawled in at the back door and been ousted unceremoniously!

The Kingstonians had certainly played a beautiful game, but the Charlestonians had played one quite as good.  All that the Kingston-lovers could do when they saw their nine come to the bat for the ninth time was to look uncomfortable, mop their brows, and remark: 

“Whew!”

The Kingstonian center-fielder was the first to the bat, and he struck out.

Then Jumbo appeared, and played a waiting game he was very fond of:  while pretending to be willing to hit anything that was pitched, he almost always let the ball go by him; and since he was so short and stocky,—­“built so close to the ground,” as he expressed it,—­the pitcher usually threw too high, and Jumbo got his base on balls a dozen times where he earned it with a base-hit or lost it on a strike-out.

And now he reached first base in his old pet way, and made ardent preparations to steal second; but his enterprise was short-lived, for the Kingston third baseman knocked an easy grounder to the short-stop, who picked it from the ground and tossed it into the second baseman’s hands almost with one motion; and the second baseman, just touching the base with his toe to put Jumbo out on a forced run, made a clean throw to first that put out the batsman also, and with him the side.