curving ball down the first base line. Rube ran
as if in seven-league boots. Mac's short legs
twinkled; he went like the wind; he leaped into
first base with his long slide, and beat the
throw.

The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumbling
down. For a moment the air was full of deafening
sound. Then came the pause, the dying away
of clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspended
quiet. Spears' clear voice, as he coached Rube, in
its keen note seemed inevitable of another run.

Ashwell took his stand. He was another left-
hand hitter, and against a right-hand pitcher, in
such circumstances as these, the most dangerous
of men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captain
knew it, as showed plainly in his signal to catch
Rube at second. But Spears' warning held or
frightened Rube on the bag.

Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwell
could not be coaxed. Wearily Vane swung; the
shortstop raced out to get in line for a possible
hit through the wide space to his right,
and the second baseman got on his toes as both
base runners started.

Crack! The old story of the hit and run game!
Ashwell's hit crossed sharply where a moment