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As a result, he was forced to reach for the ball with his bare right hand, and he dropped it. The home crowd was on its feet now, shouting wildly as the umpire's downward gesture with both hands proclaimed the daring Texan safe at third. Copley snarled at Pratt, and Sanger plainly showed that the performance of Grant had put him on the anxious seat.
His mallet whirled in the air, there was a crack like a pistol shot, and the ball flew over the amazed goalkeeper's head and between the posts. The yelling and handclapping of the few spectators almost drowned the umpire's whistle. "By gad, that was a corker!" said he of Chantilly, as the ponies' wild gallop eased to a canter.
It was impossible to clear the ground and continue the play that evening, and stumps were drawn for the day. Next morning the fielding side offered the disgusted batsman to continue his innings, but he decided to play the game and abide by the umpire's decision. I forget whether Eton or Harrow was in the field at the time, and after this lapse of years it does not matter.
"Of course he has. Be a good sport, Gordon. Don't kick on the umpire's decision. Play the game." "That's all very well. But what about her? Am I to sit quiet while she is sacrificed to a code of honor that seems to me rooted in dishonor?" "She is not being sacrificed. I'm her cousin. I'm very fond of her. And I'd trust her with Colby Macdonald." "Play fair, Diane.
Dave Darrin knew that throw, and was ready. In another instant he could have dropped with chagrin, for the ball, after all, was another "drop," and Greg Holmes had mitted it for the Army in tune to the umpire's: "Strike three-out! Two out!" "David, little giant, your hand!" begged Dalzell, in a fiery whisper as his chum reached the bench. "What's up?" asked Darrin half suspiciously.
And Dick Prescott? While running he had given no thought to his knee. Now, as he dashed across the plate, and heard the umpire's decision, he tried to stop, but slipped and went down. He tried to rise, but found it would be better to sit where he was. The game was over.
"Strike one!" called Tozier, shifting a pebble to his left hand. Ted grinned derisively as he twisted the leather for the next throw. "Ball one!" and a bean followed the pebble into the umpire's left hand. "Strike two! Ball two! Ball three!" Ted Teall began to feel angry over the growing pile of called balls. He delivered one with great care. Whack!
But I knew Doctor X slightly, having met him last summer in one of his hours of ease in the grand stand at a ball game, when he was expressing a desire to cut the umpire's throat from ear to ear, free of charge; and I remembered his name, and remembered, too, that he had impressed me at the time as being a person of character and decision and scholarly attainments. He wore whiskers.
I did not see him again until late that afternoon when the game was nearly over. Some rough work in one of the scrimmages compelled me to withdraw one of the Harvard players from the game. As I walked with him to the side lines, I glanced at his face, only to recognize my friend the ticket producer. The umpire's task then became harder than ever, as I gave him a seat on the side line.
A great many points were always coming up: whether a boy took-up or edged beyond the very place where his toy lay when he shot; whether he knuckled down, or kept his hand on the ground in shooting; whether, when another boy's toy drove one marble against another and knocked both out of the ring, he holloed "Fen doubs!" before the other fellow holloed "Doubs!" whether a marble was in or out of the ring, and whether the umpire's decision was just or not.
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