CHAPTER XXIII

WHEN CODDLING WEAKENED

Crash!

“Wow! Look at that ball go, will you?”

“And two men on bases! Here’s where we climb all over poor old Columbia!”

“What’s the score now?”

“Seven to five, and this makes it----”

“Hold on, there; you’re counting your chickens before they’re hatched. Did you notice that reliable old Jack Comfort got under that screamer, and tagged it? And if you look sharp enough, Bellport, you’ll see two husky lads tearing back to try and make their bases before the ball comes; but it’s no go! There, Seymour has it on his man, and watch him send the ball to Lanky! All out! Set ’em up in the other alley, boys!”

Such a frightful noise as followed this splendid play on the part of the club that was coming up from behind. What with Herman Hooker and his squad of howlers, megaphone and all, together with a thousand other brazen-throated shouters, it really seemed as though the very earth trembled.

It was the ending of the seventh inning. The game was being played in Bellport, since they had been fortunate enough to win the toss. That was the first sign of luck in their favor. Besides, everybody knew that Frank Allen was still somewhat handicapped by his accident, though he had the grit to continue in the box as long as Captain Seymour wished.

At one time the score had been seven to three, so that as the game progressed it began to seem that the Columbia High boys were climbing. They had had their little juggle, in which every man nearly did something foolish, and runs piled in; after which they had settled down to serious business.

“They’re creeping up, boys, creeping up!” shouted Herman, encouragingly.

“Sure they are, and if the game only lasts ten hours more it looks like Columbia might come in neck and neck with Bellport,” jeered one of the mill workers.

Watkins Gould was about, and evidently making wagers, although he did not dare show the color of his money. There was more or less talk about finding some means of keeping him out, since he had been known to try and influence a player to do some underhand work and throw a game.

The eighth inning began.

Seymour had been encouraging his men to make a break and do some consecutive batting that would count.

“We only need two runs to tie, three to win, fellows. Somebody jump on first, and then the rest of us get busy with our little bats!” he was saying, as his men came hustling in from the field to the bench.

“Batter up!” called the umpire.

“That means me,” sang out Ben Allison, as he stepped forward to the plate.

Coddling looked unusually savage. The fact of the matter was he knew that these boys of Columbia were rapidly getting on to his curves. The last inning they had hit him freely, and seemed ready to take up the good work again right now.

When that feeling pinches at the door of a pitcher’s heart, he is going to hurt himself trying to excel. Coddling’s one great mainstay had been his coolness under any and all conditions; and when he allowed himself to show signs of anger he not only injured his chances, but gave encouragement to the enemy.

Ben could always hit the Bellport pitcher. If he got on first there were other dangerous batters to follow. Just then they looked like real giants to Coddling; and yet at another time he had smiled disdainfully at the same fellows, and with coolness struck them out in succession.

Allison was a good waiter usually. To-day he took toll of the very first ball that the Bellport pitcher sent twisting on its way. When a team gets in its stride, and is hitting with perfect confidence, all balls seem to look alike to them, and it is next to impossible to keep the sphere out of their reach.

“That’s the way, fellows! Here’s Ben waiting for his ticket around the course. Bones, push him along, will you?” shouted Herman Hooker through his megaphone.

Just as if he were taking his orders from that source, what did Shadduck do but lay down the most beautiful little bunt imaginable, right along the line, but keeping well within bounds.

“Go it, you heifer!” shouted the bleachers.

Bones never got to first, but there was a grin on his freckled face as he turned aside and retraced his steps, for he had landed his comrade on second, and that was what he had been instructed by Captain Seymour to do.

Then up stepped Jack Comfort. It looked as though he meant to duplicate the performance of Bones, for he made a stab at the first ball. But that was only in the line of a trick with Jack. All the while he was picking out just where he could swipe the next ball that came along.

[Illustration: BEN MADE A GALLANT SLIDE FOR HOME.

_Columbia High on the Diamond_ _Page 215._]

As the bat and ball came together with a vicious smash, there burst from the frantic crowd a howl such as had never before been heard on those Bellport grounds.

“Run, Jack, run! Go it, Ben, you slow-coach. Hurry! the ball’s after you!”

Ben made a gallant slide for home, though there was hardly any necessity for it. Still, he believed in making sure; and the ball did plunk in the catcher’s mitt even as his hand fell on the plate.

“One run!”

“A man on second, and only one out!”

“Keep it going, you tigers. You’ve got Coddling’s measure all right. Put the Indian sign on him! Give us another cheer, Herman!”

“All together, then, and with a whirl! Here you go, now! Ho! ho! ho! hi! hi! hi! _veni! vidi! vici!_ Columbia! Siss! boom! ay!”

Herman and his cohort could not sit through such excitement as this. They had left the bleachers and were jumping up and down like a group of wild Indians, waving their arms, dancing in a circle, and shrieking until every mother’s son gave promise of being as hoarse as a crow on the morrow.

If noise could coax Columbia to win this up-hill game, there was certainly every inducement in the world for them to accomplish that task.

Lanky Wallace to the bat. Lanky had not distinguished himself overly much thus far during the day.

“He’s due for a hit, fellows, mark me!” cried one enthusiast, and Lanky heard, for he grinned and nodded, as if he felt it in his bones.

Coddling was wabbling by now. He had weakened in the great strain. Somehow he believed in his soul that Lanky had it in for him, and actually began to toss wide ones, having less fear of the next two batters. But Lanky was indignant, and did not mean to be cheated of his prey. If the mountain refused to come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain.

“Step out and take one, Lanky, old boy!”

“Don’t you dare let him pass you! He’s tricky, all right, and he knows you can swat it! Oblige us, Lanky, please!”

Lanky evidently could not find it in his heart to refuse such pleading. And he “swatted it” so very hard that Smith, Jr., had to run like a deer to keep the long-legged first baseman from making a clean sweep of the bases.

The score tied, and a man on third, with only one out!

Imagine the racket that ensued. Men began to shake hands with each other in their intense emotional excitement, that is, men who owned to a partiality for Columbia. As for the good people of Bellport, they cheered in a faint way, feeling the strain, but not exactly liking the way things were going against them.

“Now, Buster, _you_ know! Pick out a good one, and send it over the fence!”

Buster wanted to do just that. It would have pleased him immensely to have been the one to bat in the run needed to lead the score, and possibly win the game.

But he was over anxious, or else Coddling got a new grip on himself; for Buster ingloriously struck out. A groan went up from the Columbia High partisans, for they had been indulging in hopes that the wonderful Coddling had gone to pieces.

Tom Budd stepped up to try his luck. He had been responsible for one of the earlier runs in the game, and there was hope that he could connect with a twister, just as before.

When the smack of the bat announced that he had, a shout started to break loose; but it instantly degenerated into a groan, followed by whoops from the Bellport adherents. For Tom Budd had knocked up a soaring foul that dropped into the big mitt of Clay, and was smothered there.

During their half of the eighth the Bellport boys went out one, two, three.

So the ninth inning opened.

Once again the Columbias had a chance to distinguish themselves. Seymour himself started things moving this time with a hot one that stung the hands of Herbert Lacy at short, so that he fumbled it, and the runner just reached the bag in time to be called safe, though it was a close call.

Paul Bird knew that it was his part of the play to advance the runner a base. He waited carefully while Coddling took his time and recovered his wind. Then Paul tapped a bunt close to the plate. Clay, in his eagerness to handle it, fought the ball. It was just about two seconds, but he saw he had lost his man at second, and had to hustle hard to get Paul at first.

Was this inning to be a repetition of the last one? everybody sat up and seemed to be holding their breath in suspense. Everything depended on what Frank Allen could do, when a hit might mean the game.

Frank tried to calm his nerves as he stepped into the batter’s position and gave a reassuring glance toward the grandstand, where he knew full well a pretty girl was waving her little flag, and praying in her heart that he would win his own game with the single hit that was needed at this critical point.

Coddling was winding up preparatory to throwing, when Frank received a signal from Captain Seymour at second that told him to wait. He knew what that meant, and that the fleetfooted Columbia man was about to get enough of a lead to steal third.

With Clay behind the bat, that was indeed a risky thing to attempt; but no one was apparently expecting such a move, and in that it stood a chance for succeeding.