hammered his first pitch to deep right for three bases.
Something like a sigh came from the coach's lips. The Owl, who was interested in this game as he had never before been interested in a game, squirmed along the bench. The stand, used to defeat, now sat in tragic silence.
Morelli's face seemed to have set into stony lines. Twice he pitched, and twice the umpire said "Strike." Once more the pitcher hurled the ball, and the batter swung. The sphere arched up into the air in a high foul, and Hammond was under it when it came down.
"One gone," shrilled Littlefield. "We'll get 'em, Morri; watch your step."
From the stand naught but a feeble cheer.
At the plate a Hastings batter crouched and made short, nervous movements with his bat. Morelli's first offering was wide.
"Ball one!"
The next was better. The batter swung, and the ball rose in the air.
Post turned his back on the diamond and began to run. The hit was one of those tantalizing things known as a Texas Leaguer—too far in for the outfielders, too far out for the infielders. Twice Post looked back over his shoulders. Now the ball was directly overhead; now it was be-
