“Oh, Dick!  Oh, Prescott!” wailed the home fans.  “We look to you.”

Dick’s answer was to strike the next man out, with never a chance for the man on first to steal away from Dalzell and make second.  Then a short fly filled first and second.  Dick struck out a second man—–­then a third.

But this was getting on Gridley’s nerves.  Despite Prescott’s fine pitching, it began to look as though Gardiner High School was fitted for getting the only one or two runs that the game would witness.

In the eighth, Gardiner got a second run, but that inning closed with Gridley as much “stumped” as ever.

“Why play the ninth?” yelled one of the visitor fans.   “Let’s
go and drink tea.   Gridley boys are nice little fellows, but-----”

“How’s that wrist?” asked Captain Purcell, anxiously, as the players changed places to begin the ninth.  Coach Luce had stepped close, too, and looked anxious.

“Just a bit lame, of course,” Dick admitted.  “But I’m going to pull through.”

“You’re sure about it?” Purcell asked.

“Sure enough!”

The first Gardiner man to bat went out on the third ball sent past him.  Then a second.  Now came Prendergast to the bat, blood in his eye.  He glared grimly at young Prescott, as though to say: 

“Now, I’ll take it out of you for making a comedian of me the first time I held the stick!”

Dick felt, somehow, that Prendergast would make good.

The first ball that Prescott put over the plate was a called strike. 
At the second serve—–­

Crack! and Prendergast was running.

Dan Dalzell gauged the flight of that ball better than anyone else on the diamond.  He side-stepped like a flash, falling back a couple of paces.  Then pulling the leather down out of the air, he leaped back to first.  He was holding the ball in his left hand when Prendergast, breathing fast, hopped at the bag.

“Runner out!” called Umpire Foley.  Prendergast stamped back, with a look of huge disgust.  And now Gridley came in at the bat.

“It’s no use!  We’re whipped!” That was the comment everywhere as Gridley came in from the field prepared for a last effort.

Gridley’s first and second men went bad—–­the first struck out, and the second knocked a foul bit that was caught.

“Greg, you’ve got to go to bat next,” whispered Dick to Holmes, just a moment before.  “Oh, don’t you strike out.  Hit something drive it somewhere.  Remember Gridley can’t and won’t lose!  Get the Gridley spirit soaked into you instanter.  Chase that leather somewhere!”

Gardiner’s pitcher, his face beaming, faced Holmes, whom he did not regard as one of the team’s heavyweights in batting skill.  Visiting fans were rising, preparing to leave the stand.

“Strike one!”

“There he goes!”

“Strike two!”

“It’s all over.”