The scientists marked down upon the calendars of their memory the fact that they had seen two preparatory school teams play a nine-inning game without scoring a run.  The others in the crowd only felt sick with hope deferred, and wondered if that home plate were going to be as difficult to reach as the north pole.

The Charleston third baseman came to the bat first for his side in the tenth inning, and he struck out.  The left-fielder followed him, and by knocking a little bunt that buzzed like a top just in front of the plate, managed to agonize his way to first base before Reddy and Heady could field the ball, both of them having jumped for it and reached it at the same time.  But this man, making a rash and foolish effort to steal second, was given the eighteenth-century punishment of death for theft, Heady having made a perfect throw from the plate.

The Charleston short-stop reached second on a fly muffed by the Kingston right-fielder—­the first error made by this excellent player.

And now once more the redoubtable Charleston catcher appeared at the bat.  Once more he showed his understanding of Reddy’s science.  This time he was evidently determined to wipe out the mistake he had made of too great haste on his previous home runs.  After warming up with two strikes, and letting three balls pass, he found the ball where he wanted it, and drove out into left-field a magnificent fly.

Pretty saw it coming, and turning, ran to the best of his ability for the uttermost edge of his field, hoping only to delay the course of the ball.  At length it overtook him, and even as he ran he sprang into the air and clutched upward for it, and struck it as if he would bat it back to the home plate.

It did not stick to his fingers, but none of the scorers counted it as an error on the clean square beside his name under the letter E. He had not achieved the impossible of catching it, but he had done the next best thing:  he had knocked it to the ground and run it down in two or three steps, and turned, and drawing backward till the ball almost touched the ground behind him, had strained every muscle with a furious lunge, and sent the ball flying for home in a desperate race with the Charleston short-stop, who had passed third base and was sprinting for dear life homeward.

At the plate stood Heady, beckoning the carrier-pigeon home with frantic hope, Sawed-Off and Reddy both rushing to get behind him and back him up, so that at least not more than one run should be scored.

With a gasp of resolve the Charleston runner, seeing by Heady’s eyes that the ball was just at hand, flung himself to the ground, hoping to lay at least a finger-tip on the plate; but there was a quick thwack as the ball struck Heady’s gloves, there was a stinging blow at the Charlestonian’s right shoulder-blade, and the shrill cry of the umpire: 

“Out!”

Once more the spectators shifted in their seats and knit their brows, and observed: