gathered closer and talked to him eagerly, telling him about Jackson’s sharp inshoot; meanwhile, Edward knelt putting on Rigby’s shoes.
“Ball two!”
“Oh, if Slade can only get his base on balls!” breathed Blanchard.
“Strike two!”
Then, as Jackson swung his arm, Warren, who had been dancing excitedly back and forth at first base, took a desperate chance; he dashed for second. The ball flew in across the plate; “Striker out!” shouted the umpire, and in the same moment the St. John’s catcher threw the ball to head Warren off. The throw was just a little wide of the base; and St. Timothy’s, breathless during Warren’s head-foremost slide, yelled joyfully when the umpire held his hand down signifying that the runner was safe.
But the yell was as short as it was sharp; Slade had struck out and was walking dejectedly away from the plate. There were two out, and Warren on second base seemed a long, long way from home.
