While that momentary dizziness lasted, something happened that caused the young pitcher to flush with humiliation.  Sandwiched in between two strikes were called balls enough to send the new batsman to first, and again the bases were full.  One more “bad break” of this kind and Wayland would receive the tie run as a present.  And then one more—–­it would be the High School pitcher handing the only lost game of the season as a gift to the visitors!

Dick braced himself supremely for the next man at bat.

“Strike one!”

It wasn’t the batter’s fault.  A very imp had sat on the spitball that Prescott bowled in.

“Strike two!”

The batsman was sweating nervously, but he couldn’t help it.  Dick Prescott had fairly forced himself into the form of the first inning.  But it couldn’t last.

Gink!  It was only a little crack at the ball, struck rather downward.  A grounding ball struck the grit and rolled out toward right infield.  There was no shortstop here.  The instant that Prescott took in the direction he was on the run.  There was no time to get there ahead of the rolling leather.  It was Dick’s left foot that stopped it, but in the same fraction of a second he bent and swooped it up—–­wheeled.

Wayland’s man from third base looked three fourths of the way in.  Captain Purcell, half frantic, was doubled up at the home plate.

Into that throw Dick put all the steam he had left in.  The leather gone from his hand, he waited.  His heart seemed to stop.

To half the eyes that looked on, ball and runner seemed to reach the home plate at the same instant.  The umpire, crouching, squinting, had the best view of all.

It was an age before Dick, with the mists before his eyes, heard the faraway words for which thousands waited breathlessly: 

“Out at home—–­three out!”

Three disheartened base runners turned and slouched dispiritedly toward the dressing rooms.

“You could have hit that ball a better swipe,” growled Wayland’s captain to the last man at bat.  The victim of the rebuke didn’t answer.  He knew that he had faced a pitcher wholly rejuvenated by sheer grit and nerve force.

At its loudest the band was blaring forth “At the Old Ball Game,” and thousands were following with the words.  Wayland fans were strolling away in dejection, but Gridley folks stood up to watch and cheer.

The whole nine had done its duty in fine shape, but Dick Prescott had made himself the idol of the Gridley diamond.

When the band stopped, the cheers welled forth.  The lion’s share was for Prescott, but Darrin was not forgotten.  Even Ripley, who had pitched three of the minor games, came in for some notice.

Dick?

With the strain and suspense gone he felt limp and weak for a few minutes.  Under the cold shower he revived somewhat.  Yet, when he started homeward, he found that he ached all over.  With the last game of the season gone by, Dick half imagined that his right wrist was a huge boil.