Now Carson came up with the stick, sending out a slow grounder.

In like an Apache runner came Prescott, kicking the plate just before the ball dropped.

From the seats of the Army came the triumphant yell: 

“North point, east point, south point, West Point—–­two points!”

The next Army man struck out, but West Point was breathing, now, with score two to one.

“Don’t let Lehigh put another dot on the card, Prescott, and you’ll be our pitcher this year,” promised Maitland.

“Wait and see if the visitors can get any more from us,” laughed Dick coolly.  He felt that he had his old Gridley winning gait on now.  He proved it by striking out three straight in the first half of the eighth.  But West Point did not score, either, in that inning.

Then came Lehigh, grim and desperate, to bat for the ninth time.  The first man Dick struck out.  But even his wrist seemed to be treacherous now.  The second Lehigh man offered at nothing, and went to first on called balls.  So did the second, and a third man, and the bags were filled.

Maitland glanced appealingly at Dick.

The new batsman, at the second offer, drove a slow grounder.  Greg Holmes raced forward for it, like a deer.  As he caught it up there was no perceptible pause before he sent it straight into Maitland’s hands, and the man headed for the plate was out.  But the three bags were again full.

Another Lehigh man hit one of Dick’s drives, but only faintly with the edge of his bat, and he went out on a foul hit.

“Now, I’m going to strike this new man out,” resolved Dick desperately, steeling nerves and muscles for the effort.

“Strike one!” called the umpire.  “Ball one!  Ball two!  Strike two!  Strike three!  Out!”

It was over, and Lehigh, covered with chagrin, gave up the contest, while a pandemonium of Army cheers went loose.  Two to one!

“Prescott, I guess you’re our pitcher here-after” called Maitland hoarsely.  “And you, Holmesy, for shortstop!”

Dick Prescott found himself the center of a swift rush of cadets.  Then he was hoisted aloft, and rushed off the field in triumph and glory, while the corps yell rang out for him.  Over in the gym.  Prescott was forced to hold an impromptu reception.  Greg got much of the ovation.

Captain Verbeck, the head coach, came up to grasp Dick’s hand.

“Prescott, I don’t understand how you ever got by us.  But Maitland wants you for our star pitcher after this, and you’ll have to be.  It was the greatest Army game, from the box, that I’ve seen in many a year.”

“Say, you fellows,” greeted Anstey, breaking into their room after the chums had returned to barracks, “you two had better go over today, and the men who are to drag the spooniest femmes tonight are all plotting to write you down on the dance cards of their femmes.”