Herr Schimmelpodt, who, since his first enthusiasm, had not missed a game, was now among the most concerned.

The band was there, but silent.  The leader knew that, in this state of affairs the spectators wanted to make the noise themselves.

“Oh, you Dick!”

“Strike ’em out as fast as they come up.”

“Save Gridley!”

“Aw, let somebody have a game,” roared a voice from the Wayland seats, “and we need this one!”

“Prescott, remember the record!”

“No defeats this year!”

“Don’t give us one, now!”

Dick & Co. were in full force on the nine today.  True, Dave Darrin sat only on the sub bench to-day, but he was ready to give relief at any moment if Gridley’s beloved pitcher, Prescott, went under.

Holmes was out in left field; Hazelton was the nimble shortstop; Dalzell pranced at the first bag on the diamond; Tom Reade was eternally vigilant on second base.

Gridley’s High School girls, devoted feminine fans as any in the world, were breathing soft and fast now.  If only Dick, backed at need by the outfield, could keep Wayland from scoring further, then all was well.  If Wayland should score even once in this inning, it would make a tie and call for a tenth inning.  If Wayland scored twice—–­but that was too nerve-racking to contemplate.

Then a hush fell.  The umpire had called for play.

Dick let drive with his most tantalizing spitball.  The leather fell down gracefully under the Wayland’s batsman’s guess, and Purcell mitted the ball.

“Strike one!”

A hopeful cheer went up from Gridley seats, to be met with one word from Wayland fans: 

“Wait!”

Dick served the second ball.  Swat!  There it went, arching up in the air, a fair hit.  As fast as he could leg it went Holmes after it, and with good judgment.  But the ball got there before Greg did.  In a twinkling, the young left fielder had the ball up and in motion.  Tom Reade caught it deftly at second, and wheeled toward first.  But the runner saw his error in leaving first, and slid back in season.

Turning back, with his lips close together, Dick tried a new batsman.  Two strikes, and then the visitor sent out a little pop-over that touched ground and rolled ere Harry Hazelton could race in and get it, driving it on to first base.

“Safe at first,” called the umpire, and the other Waylander had reached second.

“O-o-o-h!”

“Don’t let ’em have it, Dick—–­don’t!”

The wail that reached his ears was pathetic, but Prescott paid no heed.  He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators.  He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the fag-end of the game.

The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher’s wrist, but Dick nerved himself for better efforts.  Despite him, however, a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the bases were full.