and found a bat, and then came limping to the plate. Even before the umpire could cry "Hammond now batting for Tuttle" the spectators were in an uproar. Boys were telling each other that Hammond hadn't played since he twisted his ankle in a practice game five days ago sliding home on a home run hit. "Home Run Hammond" they called him now, and called it in a swelling chorus that had the fervor of a prayer—just as in the fall they called him "Thunderbolt Hammond."
Hammond, at the plate, was easing himself into position.
"He's favoring that bad leg," Praska thought in a panic. "If the leg should pain him when he goes for the ball, if the pain should throw him off on his swing—"
"They only want Ham to send a fly to the outfielders," a voice said behind Praska, "so that the tying run can score. He'd never be able to run out an infield hit."
"If he does hit to the infield and if Lit is thrown out at the plate" another voice began.
"Sure, Ham will be doubled at first and the game will be over."
Praska's hands began to sweat. The pitcher threw the ball. Hammond hopped away on one leg.
