Part 20 (1/2)
”Never mind, Hicks,” said good Butch Brewster, brokenly, seeing how sorrow-stricken his sunny cla.s.smate was, ”We'll beat 'em--yet! We bat this inning, and in the ninth maybe someone will knock a home-run for us, and tie the score.”
The eighth Inning was the lucky one for the Gold and Green. Monty Merriweather opened with a clean two-base hit to left, and advanced to third on Biff Pemberton's sacrifice to short. Butch, trying to knock a home-run, struck out-a la ”Cactus” Cravath in the World's Series; but the lanky Ichabod, endeavoring to bunt, dropped a Texas-Leaguer over second, and the score was tied, though the sky-sc.r.a.per twirler was caught off base a moment later. And, though Ballard fought hard in the last of the eighth, Ichabod displayed big-league speed, and retired two hitters by the strike-out route, while the third popped out to first.
”TheInning!” breathed Beef McNaughton, picking up his Louisville Slugger, as he strode to the plate. ”Come on, boys--we will win the Champions.h.i.+p . Get one run, and Ichabod will hold Ballard one more time!”
Perhaps the pachydermic Beef's grim att.i.tude unnerved the wonderful Bob Forsythe, for he pa.s.sed that elephantine youth. However, he regained his splendid control, and struck out Cherub Challoner on three pitched b.a.l.l.s.
After this, it was a shame to behold the Ballard first-baseman drop the ball, when Don Carterson grounded to third, and would have been thrown out with ease--with two on base, and one out, Roddy Perkins made a sharp single, on which the two runners advanced a base. Now, with the sacks filled, and with only one out--
”It's all over!” mourned Captain Butch Brewster, rocking back and forth on the bench. ”Hicks--is--at--bat!”
T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his bat wobbling, and his knees acting in a similar fas.h.i.+on, refusing to support even that fragile frame, staggered toward the plate, like a martyr. A tremendous howl of unearthly joy went up from the stands, for Hicks had struck out every time yet.
”Three pitched b.a.l.l.s, Bob!” was the cry. ”Strike him out! It's all over but the shouting! He's scared to death, Forsythe--he can't hit a barn-door with a scatter-gun! One--two--three--out! Here's where Ballard wins the Champions.h.i.+p.”
Twice the grinning Bob Forsythe cut loose with blinding speed--twice the extremely alarmed Hicks dodged back, and waved a feeble Chautauqua salute at the ball he never even saw! Then--trying to ”cut the inside corner” with a fast inshoot, Forsythe's control wavered a trifle, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the ball streaking toward him! The paralyzed youth felt like a man about to be shot by a burglar. He could feel the bail thud against him, feel the terrific shock; and yet--a thought instinctively flashed on him, he remembered, in a flash, what a tortured Monty Merriweather had shouted, as he wobbled to bat:
”Get a base on b.a.l.l.s, or--if you can'ta hit--!”
If he got hit--it meant a run forced in, as the bases were full! That, in all probability, would give old Bannister the Champions.h.i.+p, for Ichabod was invincible. It is not likely that the dazed Hicks thought all this out, and weighed it against the agony of getting hit by Forsythe's speed. The truth is, the paralyzed youth was too petrified by fear to dodge, and that before he could avoid it, the speeding spheroid crashed against his n.o.ble brow with a sickening impact.
All went black before him, T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., pale and limp, crumpled, and slid to the ground, senseless; therefore, he failed to hear the roar from the Bannister bench, from the loyal Gold and Green rooters in the stands, as big Beef lumbered across the plate with what proved later to be the winning run. He did not hear the Umpire shout: ”Take your base!”
”What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right!
What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right!
He was never a star in the baseball game, But he won the Champions.h.i.+p just the same-- What's the matter with our Hicks-he's all right!”
”Honk! Honk!” Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, rattling up the driveway, bearing back to the Bannister campus the victorious Gold and Green nine, and the State Intercollegiate Baseball Champions.h.i.+p, though the hour was midnight, found every student on the gra.s.s before the Senior Fence! Over three hundred leather-lunged youths, aided by the Bannister Band, and every known noise-making device, hailed ”The Dove,” as that unseaworthy craft halted before them, with the baseball nine inside, and on top. However, the terrific tumult stilled, as the bewildered collegians caught the refrain from the exuberant players:
”He was never a star in the baseball game-- But he won the Champions.h.i.+p just the same-- What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right!”
”Hicks did what?” shrieked Skeezicks McCracken, voicing through a megaphone the sentiment of the crowd. Captain Butch had simply telegraphed the final score, so old Bannister was puzzled to hear the team lauding T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who, still white and weak, with a bandage around his cla.s.sic forehead, maintained a phenomenal quiet, atop of ”The Dove,” leaning against Butch Brewster.
”Fellows,” shouted Butch, despite Hicks' protest, rising to his feet on the roof of the ”jit.”--”T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., today won the game and the Champions.h.i.+p! Listen--”
The vast crowd of erstwhile clamorous youths stood spellbound, as Captain Butch Brewster, in graphic sentences, described the game--Don Carterson's failure, Ichabod's sensational pitching, Hicks' errors, and--the wonderful manner in which the futile youth had won the Champions.h.i.+p! As little Skeet Wigglesworth and the five subst.i.tutes, who had returned that afternoon, had spread the story of Hicks' bonehead play, old Bannister had turned out to ridicule and jeer good-naturedly the sunny youth, but now they learned that Hicks had been forced by his own mistake into the Big Game, and had won it!
Of course, his comrades knew it had been through no ability of his, but the knowledge that he had been knocked senseless by Forsythe's great speed, and had suffered so that his college might score, thrilled them.
”What's the matter with Hicks?” thundered Thor, he who at one time would have called this riot foolishness, and forgetting that the nine had just chanted the response to this query.
”He's all right!” chorused the collegians, in ecstasy.
”Who's all right?” demanded John Thorwald, his blond head towering over those of his comrades. To him, now, there was nothing silly about this performance!
”Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!” came the shout, and the band fanfared, while the exultant collegians shouted, sang, whistled, and created an indescribable tumult with their noise-making devices. For five minutes the ear-splitting din continued, a wonderful tribute to the lovable, popular youth, and then it stilled so suddenly that the result was startling, for--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swaying on his feet arose, and stood on the roof of the ”jit.”
With that heart-warming Ches.h.i.+re cat grin on his cherubic countenance, the irrepressible Hicks seized a Louisville Slugger, a.s.sumed a Home-Run Baker batting pose, and shouted to his breathlessly waiting comrades:
”Fellows, I vowed I would win that baseball game and the Champions.h.i.+p for my Alma Mater by my headwork! With the bases full, and the score a tie, the Ballard pitcher hit me in the head with the ball, forcing in the run that won for old Ballard--now, if that wasn't --”
CHAPTER XIX