he whispered to himself. "Why can't I? why can't I?" But he couldn't and he knew it.
Rather to their own surprise the Randall lads began finding the ball with surprising regularity. They batted it out "for keeps," as Molloy said, and they managed to tie the score. Then came the ever nerve-thrilling ninth inning in a close game. By great good luck, after he had given one man his base on balls, Langridge retired a trio in one-two-three order, and the score still stood a tie.
"Now, fellows, slam it into them. Wallop the hide off 'em—sting 'em—souse 'em—put 'em in brine for next year!" implored Holly Cross. "I'm first up, and I'm going to give you a correct imitation of a man making a home run."
But he didn't. Holly struck out miserably and he went away into a far corner and thought gloomy thoughts. Not for long, however. A resounding crack of the bat told him some one had knocked a fly. It was Phil Clinton, and he started for first like a deer with the hounds after it.
"My, but he can run!" exclaimed Tom in admiration. "Wouldn't he be fine covering the gridiron with the ball tucked under his arm? Go on! go on! That's the stuff, Phil! Pretty! pretty! That's a beaut! that's a beaut!"
Tom was on his feet yelling at the top of his voice. So were hundreds of other lads and girls also. But the Boxer third baseman was right near
