Barbour Ralph Henry
The Crimson Sweater

"Strike!" said the umpire.

Again Roy tried his luck, spun half around and recovered himself to find Rollins doing the grinning. Roy grew angry. To have Rollins laugh at him was too much. He gripped his bat and took position again. Then he remembered his grin. It was hard to get it back, but he did it. Roy has an idea that that grin worried Rollins; that as may be, it is a fact that the next ball went so wide of the plate that the catcher had to throw himself on the ground to stop it and Kirby was safe on second.

"Two and two!" cried the catcher, setting his mask firm again. "Right after him, Jim. He's pretty easy."

Jim undoubtedly meant Roy to strike at the next one, but Roy didn't because the ball quite evidently had no intention of coming over the base.

"Three balls," remarked the umpire in a disinterested tone, just as though hundreds of hearts weren't up in hundreds of throats.

For the first time since coming to bat Roy had a gleam of hope. Rollins had put himself in a hole and the next ball would have to be a good one. And it was.

Roy swung sharply to meet it, dropped his bat like a hot potato and streaked for first. Out in left field a cherry and black stockinged youth was gazing inquiringly toward the afternoon sky. Home raced Kirby, around the bases streaked Roy. He had seen the ball now and hope was dying out within him. Left fielder seemed directly under it. But he would run as hard as he knew how, at any rate; there was no harm in that; and you never could tell what would happen in baseball. So Roy went flying across second base and headed for third like a small cyclone in a hurry. And as he did so his heart leaped, for left fielder had suddenly turned and was running sideways and backward by turns out into the field.

He had misjudged it badly. Had he not done so I should have had a different ending to narrate. But he did, and when the ball came to earth he was not quite under it although he made a frantic effort to get it. And by the time he had picked it up and relayed it to shortstop Roy was turning past third. And by the time shortstop had his hands about it and had turned, Roy was almost at the plate. And by the time – But what's the use in drawing a story out in this way? Roy beat that ball to the plate by at least two seconds. And in one more second he was being literally carried to the bench in the midst of a howling, shrieking, dancing mob of Ferry Hillites.

Perhaps Ferry Hill would have continued the game until her third man had been put out had she had a chance. But when the spectators take it into their heads to have a war-dance in the middle of the diamond, ball playing is extremely difficult. So Chub shouted something to the umpire, the scorer slammed his book shut on a score of 8 – 7 and pandemonium had everything its own way.

Here and there a Ferry Hill player tried to sneak back to the gymnasium undetected, but in every case he was captured and placed high up on the shoulders of frantic, joy-crazed friends. There was no band there to lead that triumphant procession around and around the diamond, but no one felt the necessity for one. There was noise enough without it.

Roy, swaying unsteadily on the shoulders of a little group of hatless, red-faced youths, looked down on the sea of pushing, panting figures and grinned happily. Chub, clinging desperately to the heads of two of his bearers, charged through the throng in Roy's direction.

"Hello, there!" he bawled. "Use your spurs and come on!"

But Roy's bearers needed no spurs. They charged the crowd and Roy went bobbing through a little forest of upraised eager hands. Then the procession took some semblance of form and began its march around the bases according to time-honored custom. As Roy, following closely behind Chub, passed third, he found Doctor Emery and his family beside him. The Doctor was smiling broadly, Mrs. Emery was waving a diminutive banner and Harry was dancing and shrieking, her red hair floating in disordered wisps about her face. She caught sight of Roy on the instant and darted toward him.

"Wait! Wait!" she commanded shrilly.

Roy's bearers waited, laughing and panting protestingly.

Harry reached up and tossed a crimson sweater about Roy's shoulders.

"I'm so glad, Roy," she cried breathlessly. "And it's all mended; I did it myself!"

Roy nodded, drew the arms of his precious sweater across his chest and called his thanks. Then, impatient of the delay, his bearers charged forward again and Roy clutched wildly to keep his seat. Thrice around the diamond the procession went, cheering and singing, and then it turned across the track and filed through the gate in the hedge and so through the June twilight and under the great elms to the gymnasium.

And in the van of the line, like a vivid standard of victory, swayed The Crimson Sweater.