“Whoo-oopee!  Wow! wow! wow!” rang the chorus of thousands.

“Four to two!”

“What about Gridley, now?”

“What about Dick Prescott?”

Then words were lost in volleys of cheers.  The Gardiner fans who had risen to cheer slipped dejectedly down from the stand.

And Dick Prescott?

While running he had given no thought to his knee.

Now, as he dashed across the plate, and heard the umpire’s decision, he tried to stop, but slipped and went down.  He tried to rise, but found it would be better to sit where he was.

The game was over.  Gridley, having made the winning runs in the last half of the ninth, the rules of the game forbade any further attempts to pile up score.

One of the first of the great crowd to leap over into the field and cross the diamond was Coach Luce.  He ran straight to the young pitcher’s side, kneeling close by him.

“You’ve given your knee a fearful twist, Prescott.  I could see it,” said Luce sympathetically.

“What do I care?” Dick called back, his face beaming.  “The score’s safe, isn’t it?”

Had it not been for the state of his knee Prescott would have been snatched up by a dozen hands and rushed across the field in triumph.  But Mr. Luce waved them all back.  Dick’s father and mother came hurrying across the field to see what was wrong with their boy.

“Let me lean on you as I get up, Mr. Luce,” begged Dick, and the coach was only too quick to help the boy to his feet.  Then, with the aid of Luce’s arm, Dick was able to show his parents that he could walk without too much of a limp.

“You did it for us, Dick, old boy!” greeted Captain Purcell, as soon as he could get close.

“Did I?” snorted the young pitcher.  “I thought there were four of us in it, with five others helping a bit.”

“It was the crack you gave that ball that brought us in,” glowed Purcell.  “Gracious, I don’t believe that Gardiner pitcher was ever stung as badly as that before!”

The band was playing, now.  As the strain stopped, and the young pitcher came across the field, leaning now on Dave Darrin’s arm, the music crashed out again into “Hail to the Chief!”

“You see, Purcell.  You’re getting your share of the credit now,” laughed Dick.  “The band is playing something about a captain, isn’t it?”

In the dressing room Dick had abundant offers of help.  Fred Ripley was the only silent one in the group.  He changed his togs for street clothes as quickly as he could and disappeared.  Later, Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes helped Dick on to a street car, and saw him safely home.  That knee required further treatment by Dr. Bentley, but there was time, now, and no game depending on the result.

“Fred, I can’t say much for your appetite tonight,” remarked his father at the evening meal.

“Neither can I, sir,” Fred answered.