I could think of no way to figure
it except that when the ball left him there was
scarcely any appreciable interval of time before
it cracked in Sweeney's mitt. It was the Rube's
drop, which I believed unhittable. Berne let it
go by, shaking his head as McClung called it a
strike. Another followed, which Berne chopped
at vainly. Then with the same upheaval of his
giant frame, the same flinging of long arms and
lunging forward, the Rube delivered a third drop.
And Berne failed to hit it.
The voiceless bleachers stamped on the benches
and the grand stand likewise thundered.
Callopy showed his craft by stepping back and
lining Rube's high pitch to left. Hoffer leaped
across and plunged down, getting his gloved hand
in front of the ball. The hit was safe, but Hoffer's
valiant effort saved a tie score.
Lane up! Three men on bases! Two out!
Not improbably there were many thousand
spectators of that thrilling moment who pitied
the Rube for the fate which placed Lane at the
bat then. But I was not one of them. Nevertheless
my throat was clogged, my mouth dry, and
my ears full of bells. I could have done something
terrible to Hurtle for his deliberation, yet I knew
he was proving himself what I had always tried
to train him to be.
Then he swung, stepped out, and threw his body
with the ball.
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