“Strike two!”

The boy was still undaunted, though he had lost two chances out of the three.

Again he tried for the ball.

Swish!  It was a foul hit, out sidewise.  Gardiner’s catcher darted nimbly in under the ball.

Home fans groaned.

As for Dick, he didn’t turn his head to look.  Catcher had the ball in his fingers, but fumbled it.  It slipped.

“Hard luck,” muttered the standing Gardiner fans, waiting to give their final cheer of victory.

Dick’s next sight of the ball was when it sailed lazily over his head, into the hands of the man in the box.

“I hope Dick is bracing,” groaned one of Gridley’s subs.

“He isn’t,” retorted Dave Darrin.  “He’s just on the job, steady as iron, cool as a cucumber and confident as an American.”

Gardiner’s pitcher measured his man critically, then signaled the next ball.

It came, just as Dick, closely watching the pitcher, expected it to come, a swift, graceful out-curve.

Bang!

At least it sounded like a gunshot.  Dick Prescott struck the ball with all his might.  He struck with greatest force just barely below the center of the sphere.

It was a fearful crack, aimed right and full of steam and speed.

“Wow!”

Three base-runners, at the first sound had started running for all they were worth.  Dick’s bat flew like a projectile itself, fortunately hitting no one, and Prescott was running like Greek of old on the Olympic field.

One man in!

The ball had gone past the furthest limits of outfield.  Before it had touched the ground Dick Prescott touched first and started for second.

Gardiner right and left fields were running a race with center field.

The latter was the one to get it, but his two supporters simply couldn’t stand still.

Prescott kicked the second bag.  Almost at the same instant the second man was in.

Score tied!

What about that ball?

It was rolling on the ground, now, many yards ahead of the flying center-field.

Dick was nearing third, the man ahead of him fast nearing the home plate.

Centerfield had the ball in his hands, whirling as if on springs.

Third man safe home—–­Dick Prescott turning the third bag and into the last leg of the diamond.

Center-field threw with all his might, but the distance was long.

Second base had to stoop for the ball.  Even at that, it got past his hands.  He wheeled, bolted after the ball, got it and made a throw to the catcher.

Out of the corner of his eyes, young Prescott saw the arching ball descend, a good throw and a true one.

Yet, ere it landed in the catcher’s hand, Dick, by the fraction of a second, had sprinted desperately across the home plate.

“Runner safe home!”