the ball he stumbled and fell. The ball rolled clear. I pounced upon it from my position at third and kept the Leafs from scoring. But the bases were full with no one out and Andy our only hope.
By this time some eight thousand lusty throats were raising the very—yes, indeed, they were going to that extremity in their frenzied howl to "take him out" and their unreasonable demand for "Silent Smith." Bedlam had broken loose.
I handed the bill to Andy and begged him to take his time.
"It isn't fair, Ken," he exploded wrathfully. "What had I to do with the loss of Silent? I ask you!"
I assured him that every member of that howling mob belonged in a padded cell and added a word or two about our pennant chances.
This latter had a sobering effect. Andy took a time-saving hitch in his belt and seemed to settle down. But the Leafs were not to be denied. They pounded out two successive singles and scored as many runs.
The stand was fairly rocking with the din of stamping feet and shouting voices. Above it all could be heard the name of Silent Smith, but Andy no longer heeded. His rage had apparently subsided. He stood quietly in the center of the diamond and watched big Jess Winters carry his 390 bat to the plate. Here was the biggest batting menace in the league and it required a world of courage to face it.
For moment Andy never moved, and then he did a characteristic thing. He started talking, He told big Jess to go get a plank. To me it sounded as if the bantering tone were forced, but my heart warmed at the sight of the lad fighting to regain his stride.
"At a boy," shouted Tommy Leech from second. "Make him hit it, Andy. We're all out here!"
Andy made no response and we knew that his confidence was not at par. He took one glance at the runner on third and suddenly let go with blinding speed. Big Jess swung with all his power and the ball snapped back at Andy like a rocket. Instinctively Andy raised his arms. but the ball sped through his guard and landed with a sickening thud. The lad crumpled up like a rag.
The clamor of the crowd was instantly choked as they came to their feet in a startled wave and stood staring at the motionless form in the center of the diamond.
I THOUGHT the boy was dead. His face was pasty and his lips bloodless. Apparently his heart had ceased to beat. His eyes were open and staring with that fixed expression commonly associated with sudden death.
For ten minutes we worked over his lifeless form. The only perceptible sign of animation was a faint fluttering of the pulse in his wrist which occurred at intervals of about a minute. The condition was strange enough to make even the club physician look puzzled.
Then, with surprising force, Andy's heart began to pound along like a trip hammer. A patch of color spread in his pallid cheeks. Another minute and his eyelids fluttered weakly, his broad chest, heaved and he sighed.
With glassy eyes he stared at the anxious group which circled him. His brow was furrowed as if he were unable to comprehend the meaning of it all. He attempted to climb to his feet, but got no further than his knees. Two of the boys caught him by the arms and started to lead him to the club house. He would not have it. He shook them off and swayed uncertainly into the pitcher's box.
A gasp of astonishment went up from the crowd. No one had ever dreamed that he could resume play. It was unbelievable. They stared at him in silent awe, a mute tribute to the sheer grit of the man.
And then a roar of admiration proclaimed a new idol. Silent Smith was dead!
"Sure you're fit, buddy?" inquired the anxious chief.
For a moment there was no answer. Andy turned a haggard face and gazed at the chief with strangely sad eyes. He looked as if the troubles of the world were resting on his shoulders. Then
"Andy's all right!"
The words sounded queerly detached. The voice was toneless.
The chief shook his head and slowly left the field. He was going to take a chance. He had to. He sent two of the boys out to the bullpen to warm up, however, in ease Andy couldn't make the grade.
The crowd settled down in the stand and started buzzing like so many bees. Nothing like it had ever been seen. A blow like that would have crippled the spirit of most men, but there was Andy willing to go on. Was he able?
All eyes were glued on the lad as he started digging a hole with his spikes in front of the rubber. He ignored everything else completely. That the team was on the small end of a three-to-nothing score and that a runner was waiting on every sack just itching to swell the lead was of no importance. He scraped and he kicked at the dirt with a slow, measured effort, as if the digging of holes was an art. All this with hanging head and downcast eyes.
At last the hole was perfect and he picked up his glove. To me it looked as if he were still in a daze. He appeared to be uncertain of every movement, as if he were unable to decide just what to do next.
"All right, Andy?" I inquired doubtfully, handing him the ball.
He made no response. He ignored my query as completely as he had every thing else. Turning his back, he started a slow, graceful wind-up, every motion of which was perfectly familiar. Deliberately, methodically, he threw five balls over the plate and then waited for the batter to take his stand. And he did not utter a sound.
I shall not attempt to explain it. The facts are all I can deal with. And the fact, in this instance was that Andy threw those five balls with his left arm—not in a ridiculously awkward manner, but with perfect ease. Furthermore, his style was identical with that of Silent Smith. And Silent Smith was dead.
But this was no time for theorizing. The batter was set. The umpire was waiting. We fell into position and play was resumed.
Andy's amazing change of pace certainly worked havoc with the enemy bats. Lanky Andrews stood up to the plate like a statue and watched three perfectly good strikes float across. His bat never left his shoulder. Chubby Wilson did a little better. He at least swung. In fact, he swung three times and then followed his lanky teammate back to the pit for the second out. Pinch-hitter Collins nipped the ball for a puny fly, which Jordan, our catcher, smothered in his big mitt, stranding all three of the runners who jammed the bags. And the ball that did it was the "sigh-ball."
THE wonder of the thing held the crowd spell-bound. They watched Andy's weird performance with gaping astonishment. Had the lad changed his style. Could he have perfected that famous delivery in secret practice? Had he been holding out for the past few weeks, thinking to spring a surprise at the psychological moment? Questions were flying fast. Answers were scarce.
Had they known of the fate of Silent Smith their thoughts might have taken a more grewsome channel. Had they read that telegram from the East they might
