The game was not lost yet. A hit,
anything to get Ash to first--and then Stringer!
Ash laughed at Henderson, taunted him, shook
his bat at him and dared him to put one over.
Henderson did not stand under fire. The ball he
pitched had no steam. Ash cracked it--square on
the line into the shortstop's hands. The bleachers
ceased yelling.
Then Stringer strode grimly to the plate. It
was a hundred to one, in that instance, that he
would lose the ball. The bleachers let out one
deafening roar, then hushed. I would rather have
had Stringer at the bat than any other player in
the world, and I thought of the Rube and Nan
and Milly--and hope would not die.
Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and
struck the ball with a sharp, solid bing! It shot
toward center, low, level, exceedingly swift, and
like a dark streak went straight into the fielder's
hands. A rod to right or left would have made
it a home run. The crowd strangled a victorious
yell. I came out of my trance, for the game was
over and lost. It was the Rube's Waterloo.
I hurried him into the dressing room and kept
close to him. He looked like a man who had lost
the one thing worth while in his life. I turned a
deaf ear to my players, to everybody, and hustled
the Rube out and to the hotel. I wanted to be
near him that night.
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