Free At the Old Ballgame by Jeff Silverman Page B

word was a roar. No need to tell Frank to run. In a moment he was scudding down to first, while the left fielder was going back for the ball which had passed beyond his reach. Frank kept on for second. There was so much noise he could not hear the coachers, but he saw the fielder had not secured the ball. He made third, and the excited coacher sent him home with a furious gesture.
    Every man, woman and child was standing. It seemed as if every one was shouting and waving flags, hats, or handkerchiefs. It was a moment of such thrilling, nerve-tingling excitement as is seldom experienced. If Merriwell reached home Yale won; if he failed, the score was tied, for the man in advance had scored.
    The fielder had secured the ball, he drove it to the shortstop, and shortstop whirled and sent it whistling home. The catcher was ready to stop Merriwell.
    â€œSlide!”
    That word Frank heard above all the commotion. He did slide. Forward he scooted in a cloud of dust. The catcher got the ball and put it onto Frank—an instant too late!
    A sudden silence.
    â€œSafe home!” rang the voice of the umpire.
    Then another roar, louder, wilder, full of unbounded joy! The Yale cheer! The band drowned by all the uproar! The sight of sturdy lads in blue, delirious with delight, hugging a dust-covered youth, lifting him to their shoulders, and bearing him away in triumph. Merriwell had won his own game, and his record was made. It was a glorious finish!
    â€œNever saw anything better,” declared Harry. “Frank, you are a wonder!”
    â€œHe is that!” declared several others. “Old Yale can’t get along without him.”

Baseball Joe’s Winning Throw
    Lester Chadwick
    For a moment Tom stood there a bit embarrassed, for he saw that something unusual had happened.
    â€œI—I hope I’m not intruding,” he stammered. “I didn’t think—I came right in as I always do. Has anything—”
    â€œIt’s all right!” exclaimed Joe quickly. “We just got word that Dad has lost his patent case.”
    â€œGee! That’s too bad!” exclaimed Tom, who knew something of the affair. “What are you going to do?”
    â€œI’m going to pitch against the Resolutes, the first thing I do!” cried Joe. “After that I’ll decide what’s next. But is my glove mended, Clara? Come on, Tom, we mustn’t be late. We’re going to wallop them—just as you said.”
    â€œI hope you do!” burst out Clara.
    â€œPlay a good game and—and—don’t worry,” whispered Mrs. Matson to her son as he kissed her good-bye.
    The team and substitutes were to go to Rocky Ford in two big stages, in time to get in some practice on the grounds that were none too familiar to them. A crowd of Silver Star “rooters” were to follow on the trolley. The captain and managers of the rival teams watched their opponents practice with sharp eyes.”
    â€œThey’re snappier than when they beat us before,” was Darrell’s conclusion.
    â€œThey’ve got a heap sight better pitcher in Joe than Sam Morton ever was,” concluded Captain Hen Littell of the Resolutes, who twirled for his team. “I shouldn’t wonder but what we’d have a mighty close game.”
    The last practice was over. The scattered balls had been collected, the batting list made out and final details arranged. Once more came the thrilling cry of the umpire:
    â€œPlay ball!”
    The Resolutes were to bat last, and Seth Porter went up to bat first for the Stars.
    â€œSwat it,” pleaded the crowd, and Seth smiled. But he fanned the air successively as well as successfully and soon went back to the bench. Then came Fred Newton’s turn and he knocked a little pop fly that was easily caught before he reached first. Captain Rankin himself was up next and managed to get to first on a swift grounder that got past the shortstop. But he