Frank was watching with no little anxiety. He knew Joe was a wonderful fielder, and he had seen him make some astonishing catches; but his judgment told him that the chances were decidedly against the long-legged chap. Gamp knew it, too, and he was trying harder than he had ever tried before in all his life. “I must get it!” he thought. “I will get it!” Joe knew the game depended on his success. If he failed, the Elks would be the winners. His heart leaped into his throat. He seemed to find it necessary to set his teeth to keep it from leaping quite out of his mouth. He saw the ball beginning to fall. “I must get it! I will!” he repeated. In his mind he saw what would follow failure. He saw the Elks triumphant, the crowd roaring with joy, his own friends dejected and downcast. He even saw himself walking in from the field, his head hanging, unable to look Frank in the face. He knew how Frank would take it; he knew he would be a good loser. Across from right field came the wail of Dunnerwurst: “Get dot pall under, Choe! You can dood id!” He was doing his level best; it was not in him to do more. He realized at last that he was going to miss the ball by inches—if he missed it. Oh, that he could cover a little more ground! Oh, that he had wings! His comrades knew how madly he was trying. They scarcely breathed. “Good old Joe!” whispered Rattleton. “He can’t fail!” But there are things beyond human accomplishment. It was possible for Gamp to fail. He made a last great leap, his hands outstretched. The ball barely touched the ends of his gloved fingers. Three inches farther and he might have held it. He did not catch it, and Elkton had won the game. As soon as Joe could stop he looked after the ball a moment and then turned to walk in, refusing to chase and recover it. Roar after roar came from the stand and the bleachers. The crowd was wild with delight. It was the sort of finish to fill them with unutterable joy. They waved their hats, hands, and handkerchiefs in the air. Men howled hoarsely; women added a shriller note to the volume of sound. For the moment Sparks was the hero; but Wolfers was not forgotten. Down from the bleachers poured the spectators and out onto the field they streamed. They wanted to get near those two great heroes. They packed close about them. They even tried to lift and carry them, but neither man would have it. “Stop your foolishness!” cried Wolfers sharply. “Didn’t you ever see a game won before?” “This certainly is a red-hot baseball town!” laughed Sparks. “It will be red hot after this. The game went just right to please the bunch.” In all Elkton it seemed that just one inhabitant was downcast. Spud Bailey looked sick. He said not a word when Freckles jumped on him and punched him, crying jubilantly: “Yah! yah! yah! What do you think about it now? Knew a lot, didn’t ye! Your great Frank Merriwell got his dat time! He jest did!”