frantic fingers, and two more runs came in. On the throw to the plate, the batter went down to second. A moment later the next boy bunted. It was a play calculated to demoralize a panicky team; but Stafford raced in, scooped the ball with one hand, and threw to Morelli who had covered first base.
"Out!" ruled the umpire.
Jenning's eyes gave a flicker of admiration. This was more like his old fighting, hustling team.
The next batter hit into left field for a single, and the runner on third crossed the plate with the fourth run. Vance, fielding the ball sharply, threw. The batter, expecting that the throw would go to the plate, overran first base and took a few steps toward second, ready to dash for the middle bag should the catcher fumble. A cry of apprehension from the startled Hastings coachers sent him diving back for first base, but before his feet reached the bag Stafford had the ball on his ribs. Vance had thrown to first instead of to the plate, and the batter and the coachers had been caught asleep.
And then the doubt, the worry, left Jennings' mind. This was to be a ball game. His hand dropped on the Owl's knee.
"Son," he said, "you're just about worth your weight in gold to-day."
