"Strike!" ruled the umpire.
"Fooled on an out curve," muttered Praska.
The pitcher threw again. The catcher put up his mitt for the ball—but the ball never reached the glove.
Hammond swung. It seemed that bat and ball met on a line. There was a whistling sound, a streak of white, hopeless outfielders running with their backs to the diamond, and a pitcher standing with drooping shoulders, crushed. Littlefield and Chanler scored. Hammond, limping and hopping, went down the first-base path. One of the fielders had overtaken the ball; but even as he turned to throw it one of Hammond's feet touched the first-base bag and a shriek of jubilation broke from Northfield throats.
Ten minutes later victory still was in the air. It was in the bearing of the wave upon wave of students who poured up from the ball field. It was in the cheers that sounded from the diamond where part of the crowd waited for the team to emerge from the dressing house. It was in the set of Praska's shoulders as he fell into step beside a man and walked with him back toward the heart of the town.
"Quite a game, wasn't it?" Mr. Banning asked. "I was watching you. I thought, at one time, that you were going to throw away your hat."
