Talbott tried hard to get his second hit of the day then, but, although he fouled the ball all over the place, escaping being caught out by so many miracles, his final effort was a bounder to third baseman, and his heroic race to the bag failed of success. Van Dyke, who followed, was wildly implored to hit a home-run――although a single would have answered quite as well――and seemed willing to oblige. But Osterman for once failed to find the plate. Perhaps it was time he let down a bit, for he had pitched fine ball for eight innings. Two balls, a strike and two more balls, pitched while the Wyndham stand yelled and jeered in the universal manner of baseball crowds, sent Van to first and the bases were full! Bases full and only one away! A hit would win the game and the championship! Coach Connover nodded to Sim Jackson and the umpire announced the substitution impressively. Sim looked decidedly nervous as he swung his bat and awaited the first offering, but determination shone through the nervousness, and after Osterman had twice missed the plate he took courage. Osterman worked a pretty drop over for a strike and duplicated the proceeding a moment later. Evidently the booing and shouting from the Wyndham stand were no more than music to his ears! Then Sim hit. The ball rose in a weak infield fly that dropped fairly into the third baseman’s glove, while all three runners hurried back to their bases. Sim went back to the bench looking very woebegone. Two away now! “Risley batting for Ogden!” shouted the umpire. Gus could hit, and the Wyndham supporters took hope once more. But Gus could not, it appeared, hit to-day. Osterman fooled him badly on an out-curve, offered him a palpable ball that Gus almost went after in his anxiety and then scored again with a drop. As Gus recovered his balance after whirling around on one foot, Captain Leland, coaching at third, stooped and patted both palms against the sod. Clif took a deep breath, edged another foot from the bag, another―― Osterman was smiling a bit disdainfully as he took a short wind-up for the fourth delivery, but the smile faded abruptly. Along the path from third base a blue-stockinged form was speeding as though shot from a cannon. Cries of shrill warning sounded above the unceasing noise from the stands. Osterman stepped forward and shot the ball toward the plate, every ounce of strength behind it. Bedlam broke loose as runner and ball raced for victory. Bailey dropped despairingly, but the ball hit the dust in front of the rubber, struck his mitt and caromed off it just as Clif hurtled to the plate in a “fallaway” slide, an eager foot reaching for its goal!