The other pitcher, too, was on his mettle. Since the first inning, no one of his opponents had crossed the rubber. Only two hits had been garnered off his curves and his drop ball was working beautifully. He was determined to pitch his arm off before he would lower his colors to this young cub, who threatened to dethrone him as the premier twirler of the league. It looked like a pitchers' duel, with only one or two runs deciding the final score. In the fifth, the "stonewall infield" cracked. Sterling, the "old reliable," ran in for a bunt and got it easily, but threw the ball "a mile" over Dick's head. By the time the ball was back in the diamond, the batter was on third, and the crowd, scenting a chance to score, was shouting like mad. The cheer leaders started a song that went booming over the field and drowned the defiant cheer hurled at them in return. The coachers danced up and down on the first and third base lines, and tried to rattle Bert by jeers and taunts. "He's going up now," they yelled, "all aboard for the air ship. Get after him, boys. It's all over but the shouting." But Bert had no idea of going up in the air. The sphere whistled as he struck out Allen on three pitched balls. Halley sent up a sky scraper that Sterling redeemed himself by getting under in fine style. Ellis shot a hot liner straight to the box, that Bert knocked down with his left hand, picked up with his right, and got his man at first. It was a narrow escape from the tightest of tight places, and Ainslee and Reddy breathed again, while the disgusted home rooters sat back and groaned. To get a man on third with nobody out, and yet not be able to get him home. Couldn't they melt that icicle in the pitcher's box? What license did he have anyway to make such a show of them? The sixth inning passed without any sign of the icicle thawing, but Ainslee detected with satisfaction that the strain was beginning to tell on the big southpaw. He was getting noticeably wild and finding it harder and harder to locate the plate. When he did get them over, the batters stung them hard, and only superb support on the part of his fielders had saved him from being scored upon. At the beginning of the seventh, the crowd, as it always does at that stage, rose to its feet and stretched. "The lucky seventh," it shouted. "Here's where we win." They had scarcely settled down in their seats however, when Tom cracked out a sharp single that went like a rifle shot between second and short. Flynn sent him to second with an easy roller along the first base line. The pitcher settled down and "whiffed" Drake, but Dick caught one right on the end of the bat and sent it screaming out over the left fielder's head. It was a clean home run, and Dick had followed Tom over the plate before the ball had been returned to the infield.