The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 33
CHAPTER XXXIII
VICTORY
"The score is tie! the score is tie!" came the yells. And so it was—5 to 5 in the last half of the ninth inning. From the Randall stand came the chorus of the song, "We have their measure, we'll beat them at pleasure!"
The game, however, was far from won. There were a bunch of heavy hitters to come to the bat, and Tom's arm was in poor shape. But he said nothing and walked to the box with a step as light as though he knew he was to win.
When he gave two men their bases on balls there was some groaning among the Randallites, but Tom knew what he was doing. Lem Sellig and Frank Sullivan were generally good for safeties, and he could afford to take no chances. He had the measure of the next three men and he took it.
Seldom had the devotees of the diamond witnessed such pitching as the exhibition which Tom gave after he had allowed the heavy hitters to walk. No one ever knew what he suffered as he delivered his most effective curves, but the cheering that resulted when he had struck his third man out, without allowing a player to get to third base, must have warmed his heart.
"A ten-inning game!" was the cry, for the score still stood tie. Over in the grandstand Ford Fenton, who was cheer leader, called for the "Brace, brace, brace" song and it came in a mighty chorus.
"Only one run! only one!" pleaded hundreds of Randall lads. "One run to beat 'em, and then Tom Parsons will strike 'em out!"
Tom heard it and smiled. His arm had been given another rubbing, and though it pained him, he went to the bat first in the tenth inning with a confident step. Somewhere on the grandstand he knew a girl was watching him, and he tried to single her out. Could that be she standing up and waving a yellow and maroon flag at him? He hoped so, and he gritted his teeth, resolving to hit the ball for all that was in him.
There was a steely look in the pitcher's eye as he delivered a vicious ball to Tom. Tom saw it coming and stepped up to it. He remembered a former experience. His bat got under it and he lifted and hit it outwardly in a long, upward curve.
"Too high! too high! He's gone!" murmured Kindlings sadly, but Tom was off for first like a deer. In some unaccountable manner the right fielder muffed the ball and there were groans of anguish. Tom started for second, but was warned back. Later he did manage to "purloin the bag like a second-story man getting away with a diamond necklace," to quote Holly Cross, and went to third on a pop fly by Housenlager, who never got to first. Then, on a sacrifice hit by Kerr, Tom slid home, the dust cloud being so thick that the spectators could not witness the play.
"Safe!" declared the umpire, and this meant that a run had been added to the score for Randali, making the tally 6 to 5 in their favor. Tom was pale when he arose.
"Hurt?" asked Kindlings anxiously.
"No," was the answer, but Tom had to bite his lips to keep back a groan of pain. He had jarred his sore arm badly.
Though Randall tried desperately to better the score, it was not to be. Their only hope now lay in keeping their opponents from making a run, and, if they did, they would have the game and the championship.
Tom felt as if he would collapse, and his first ball, instead of being a puzzling drop as he intended, went straight over the plate distressingly slow, so that Ted Puder, captain of the Fairview team, hit it mightily. Up and up it went, a black speck against the blue sky, while the youths and maidens of the institute were yelling encouragingly to the runner, who had started for first.
"Oh, if he only gets it! If he only can get it!" murmured Kindlings as he watched Phil Clinton race after the ball.
It was a long, high fly, and Phil had to sprint well toward the back field to even get under it. He had turned and was racing with all his might. Would he judge it properly? Could he hold it after he got it?
He had turned again, and with his eye on the b,all was running backward now. He stumbled over a stone and seemed about to fall. There was a groan from the Randallites, but Phil recovered himself. The ball was almost over his head when he saw that he had not gone far enough back. It was too late to take another step, but Phil did the next best thing. He leaped up, and, with his right hand extended as far as it would stretch, he caught the ball. It was a mighty fine play and the yells and applause that followed testified to it.
"Runner's out!" decided the umpire.
Tom breathed easier. His heart had been in his throat when he saw what had happened to the first ball he delivered. But Phil had made good.
"What a magnificent catch!" exclaimed Dr. Churchill as he adjusted his glasses, that had been knocked off in the excitement.
"Yes," admitted another member of the faculty who sat near him. "And how Clinton can run! I'd like to see him on the gridiron."
"Perhaps you will," went on Dr. Churchill. "The boys will soon organize the eleven."
Tom's nerve came back to him. Now he didn't mind the pain in his arm. There was one man out and Tom's team was a run ahead. If he could only strike out two more men the championship would be safe.
The next batter was easy, for he was a poor hitter, and Tom soon sent him to the bench. The following player was one of the best stick-wielders Fairview had.
"If I can only get him," thought the pitcher.
Warily Tom delivered to him an inshoot. It was missed cleanly, but a look in the batter's eye warned the pitcher that another such curve would not fool him. Tom sent in a puzzling drop and the batter struck over it.
"Two strikes!" called the umpire, amid almost breathless silence.
Kerr signaled for another incurve, but Tom shook his head. He was going to deliver a style of ball he had used but once before that day because it twisted his arm fiercely. It was a sort of "fade-away" ball, made famous by a great professional player.
Tom drew his arm back, having gripped the ball strongly. The action made him wince with pain, but there was no time now to stop for that. Out straightened his muscles and the horsehide left his hand swiftly. He knew it was a good ball, but in spite of that he almost feared lest he should hear the fatal "ping" as the bat hit it or listen to the umpire's "ball one." Tom felt that he could not toss another curve. His arm was numb and tingled away up to his shoulder. He saw a black wall looming up before his eyes and there was a ringing in his ears.
But above the tumult he heard a voice shouting:
"Three strikes! Batter's out!"
Oh, what yelling there was! How the handkerchiefs and banners fluttered! How the girls' shrill voices mingled with the deep cheering of the boys! What a stamping of feet on the grandstand!
Then out from the tumult came booming that heart-stirring song of Randall: "We have come and we have conquered!"
Tom staggered as he pulled off his glove and walked toward the bench. His mouth was parched and dry.
"Oh, good old man!" yelled Kindlings, rushing up and embracing him. "Oh, fine! Oh, great! Oh, oh, oh! Wow!"
"Up with him, fellows!" called Sid Henderson. "On our shoulders!"
"No, no!" protested Tom.
But he might as well have talked to the wind. They lifted him up and marched with him around the field, singing again: "We have come and we have conquered!"
"Now, fellows, a good round of cheers for Fairview," proposed Kindlings, and the team, gathering in a circle about Tom, who had managed to descend to the ground, raised their voices in a tribute to those over whom they had been victorious.
From where they were gathered, downcast but not disheartened at their defeat, the Fairview team sent back an answering cheer. Then came more songs from the contingent of Randall students, and many an "old grad" walked with a prouder step that day, for once more, after many seasons, the bird of victory had come back to hover over the college on the river and the championship banner would float from the flagstaff on the campus.
Tom and his chums dispersed to dress. A crowd surrounded the victorious pitcher.
"Let me congratulate you, Parsons," said Dr. Churchill, making his way through the throng. "You have brought honor to the college," and he shook Tom's hand heartily.
"The rest of them did as much as I," replied Tom modestly. "If it hadn't been for Clinton's run, I'm afraid we'd have lost after all."
"You get out!" cried Phil.
"May I also congratulate you?" asked a voice at Tom's elbow, and he turned to see Miss Tyler. His face, which was pale from pain, flushed, and as she held out her hand he hesitated, for his was all stained from the dirt of the ball, while hers was daintily gloved.
"As if I minded that!" she cried as she saw him hesitate, and she took his hand in both hers, to the no small damage of the new gloves.
"I knew you'd do it," she said, while she smiled happily. "Oh, Tom, I'm so glad!"
"So am I," he answered, and after that the pain in his arm did not seem so bad.
What a triumphant procession it was that wended its way toward Randall that afternoon! How song followed song and cheer was piled upon cheer! Tom sat in the corner of a big auto, with Miss Tyler at his side. He had to put his arm in a sling and he was overwhelmed with questions as to how he felt, while the number of sweaters offered him as cushions would have stocked a furnishing store.
"Oh, boy, but you're a daisy!" exclaimed Sid a few hours later when he and Tom, after a good bath, were resting in their room.
"As if you didn't cover first base as it never has been covered before," declared Tom.
"Oh, well, that was easy for me after I passed that Latin exam. But you and your arm—I don't see how you did it."
"And don't forget Phil Clinton. That was one of the greatest runs and catches I ever saw."
"Oh, yes, it certainly was great. But did you hear the news? Phil isn't going to play any more, at least for the present."
"Why not?"
"He is going into training for our football eleven this fall. Some of the older heads think he'll make a great player."
"I've no doubt he will," said Tom. "He's built for it." And what Tom said was true, as we shall learn in our next tale, to be called "A Quarterback's Pluck." In that story we shall meet Tom and Sid and all the boys of Randall College again and also Miss Madge Tyler, and learn the particulars of several fiercely contested games on the gridiron.
"No, sir, I don't really see how you did it," repeated Sid, "with such a sore arm as that."
"I don't see, either," answered Tom, but he knew that the memory of a certain girl had done as much to keep him up as had his desire to make his team win.
Some one knocked at the door.
"More congratulatory calls," said Sid as he went to open it.
"May I come in?" asked a voice, and Langridge stood in the corridor. Tom arose from the couch where he was lying.
"Come on in," he said quietly.
"I—I just want to congratulate you, dominie," he said, and he smiled a little, but there was a curious note in his voice. "You did magnificent work. I could never have equaled it in a thousand years. Will you shake hands?"
Sid wondered at the queer air of restraint about Langridge, but Tom understood, and there was heartiness and forgiveness in the grip that followed.
"I've resigned as manager," went on Langridge. "I—I hope they'll elect you, dominie. We won't be rivals any more."
"Are you going to leave college?" asked Sid curiously.
"No. I'm going to give up athletics for a while, though, and become a grind. I've been beaten two ways lately," he went on. "Parsons is a better pitcher than I am, and—and" but he did not finish, though Tom knew he referred to Miss Tyler. Then Langridge vent out and Sid and Tom played the game all over again in talk.
Suddenly there was a shout out on the campus. Tom looked from the window.
"What is it?" asked Sid.
"They're getting ready for the procession and the bonfires along the river. Come on."
The two chums rushed downstairs, Phil Clinton joining them on the way. Out on the green was a throng of students, every one in the college.
"Three cheers for Tom Parsons, the best pitcher that ever tossed a ball!" called some one.
How the yells resounded again and again, with innumerable tigers and other wild and ferocious beasts added!
"Fall in! fall in! Down to the fires along the river!" commanded Captain Woodhouse. "Oh, but this is a great day!"
"That's what," added Ford Fenton. "My uncle says"
But his voice was drowned in the shout that followed, and then came that inspiring song, "Aut vincere aut mori."
And many fires of victory blazed along Sunny River that night.
THE END