It was the Quakers' last stand. They faced it
as a team that had won many a game in the ninth
with two men out. Dugan could do nothing with
the Rube's unhittable drop, for a drop curve was
his weakness, and he struck out. Hucker hit to
Hoffer, who fumbled, making the first error of
the game. Poole dumped the ball, as evidently
the Rube desired, for he handed up a straight one,
but the bunt rolled teasingly and the Rube, being
big and tall, failed to field it in time.
Suddenly the whole field grew quiet. For the
first time Cogswell's coaching was clearly heard.
``One out! Take a lead! Take a lead! Go
through this time. Go through!''
Could it be possible, I wondered, that after such
a wonderful exhibition of pitching the Rube would
lose out in the ninth?
There were two Quakers on base, one out, and
two of the best hitters in the league on deck, with a
chance of Lane getting up.
``Oh! Oh! Oh!'' moaned Nan.
I put my hand on hers. ``Don't quit, Nan.
You'll never forgive yourself if you quit. Take
it from me, Whit will pull out of this hole!''
What a hole that was for the Rube on the day
of his break into fast company! I measured it
by his remarkable deliberation. He took a long
time to get ready to pitch to Berne, and when he
let drive it was as if he had been trifling all before
in that game.
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