The second ball met a similar
fate. All the time the crowd maintained that
strange waiting silence. The umpire threw out a
glistening white ball, which Duveen rubbed in the
dust and spat upon. Then he wound himself up
into a knot, slowly unwound, and swinging with
effort, threw for the plate.
Burt's lithe shoulders swung powerfully. The
meeting of ball and bat fairly cracked. The low
driving hit lined over second a rising glittering
streak, and went far beyond the center fielder.
Bleachers and stands uttered one short cry,
almost a groan, and then stared at the speeding
runners. For an instant, approaching doom could
not have been more dreaded. Magoon scored.
Cless was rounding second when the ball lit. If
Burt was running swiftly when he turned first he
had only got started, for then his long sprinter's
stride lengthened and quickened. At second he
was flying; beyond second he seemed to merge
into a gray flitting shadow.
I gripped my seat strangling the uproar within
me. Where was the applause? The fans were
silent, choked as I was, but from a different cause.
Cless crossed the plate with the score that
defeated New York; still the tension never laxed
until Burt beat the ball home in as beautiful a run
as ever thrilled an audience.
In the bleak dead pause of amazed disappointment
Old Well-Well lifted his hulking figure and
loomed, towered over the bleachers.
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