of duty. He expected the Northfield nine to win. He had a faith in the school as certain as it was sublime. Northfield was never beaten, he told himself, until the last man was out—and usually not then.
Out on the diamond the Northfield coachers were entreating the boy at the plate for a hit. The pitcher, superbly confident, floated a slow curve toward the plate.
"Strike one!" ruled the umpire.
"Take your time," barked the coacher at first base. "Only takes one to give it a ride. Use your eye, old man."
The batter's eye ordered him to offer at the next pitch. He met the ball, and it rose weakly in the air. The pitcher was under it when it came down.
"Out!" ruled the umpire.
Another Northfield boy was at the plate. The pitcher, studying him, decided to try an inshoot. The ball broke in too far, and plunked into the batter's ribs. A din of sudden hope broke from the Northfield rooters as he trotted down to first, rubbing his side.
"We're off," cried Praska. "Now there, Littlefield, show us an old-time hit. Come on. Lit. Right into it."
Littlefield hitting savagely, drove the first ball
