It was as
safe as if it had been shot out of a cannon. Magoon
went to third.
The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities;
sharp commands came from the players'
bench. The Philadelphia team were bowling and
hopping on the side lines, and had to be put down
by the umpire.
An inbreathing silence fell upon stands and
field, quiet, like a lull before a storm.
When I saw young Burt start for the plate and
realized it was his turn at bat, I jumped as if I
had been shot. Putting my hand on Old Well-
Well's shoulder I whispered: ``Burt's at bat:
He'll break up this game! I know he's going to
lose one!''
The old fellow did not feel my touch; he did not
hear my voice; he was gazing toward the field
with an expression on his face to which no human
speech could render justice. He knew what was
coming. It could not be denied him in that moment.
How confidently young Burt stood up to the
plate! None except a natural hitter could have
had his position. He might have been Wagner
for all he showed of the tight suspense of that
crisis. Yet there was a tense alert poise to his
head and shoulders which proved he was alive to
his opportunity.
Duveen plainly showed he was tired. Twice he
shook his head to his catcher, as if he did not
want to pitch a certain kind of ball. He had to
use extra motion to get his old speed, and he
delivered a high straight ball that Burt fouled over
the grand stand.
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