Reddy Clammer. He timed the hit to a nicety,
went down with his old grand-stand play and
blocked the ball with his anatomy. Delaney
swore. And the bleachers, now warm toward the
gallant outfielder, lustily cheered him. Babcock
hit down the right-field foul line, giving Clammer
a long run. Hanley was scoring and Babcock was
sprinting for third base when Reddy got the ball.
He had a fine arm and he made a hard and
accurate throw, catching his man in a close play.

Perhaps even Delaney could not have found any
fault with that play. But the aftermath spoiled
the thing. Clammer now rode the air; he soared;
he was in the clouds; it was his inning and he had
utterly forgotten his team mates, except inasmuch
as they were performing mere little automatic
movements to direct the great machinery in his
direction for his sole achievement and glory.

There is fate in baseball as well as in other
walks of life. O'Brien was a strapping fellow and
he lifted another ball into Clammer's wide
territory. The hit was of the high and far-away
variety. Clammer started to run with it, not like
a grim outfielder, but like one thinking of himself,
his style, his opportunity, his inevitable
success. Certain it was that in thinking of himself
the outfielder forgot his surroundings. He ran
across the foul line, head up, hair flying, unheeding