McCarthy was the first batter. He crowded close to the plate, determined to force the young pitcher to earn his victory. He refused to hit until two strikes and three balls had been called, and then, shortening his grip upon his bat, he hit the straight, fast ball sharply to center for a base. Instead of sacrificing, Swanson received orders to hit and run and, although he was thrown out at first base, McCarthy reached second, and Babbitt, the first baseman, came to bat. Hoskins appeared nervous. The strain was telling upon the youngster, and Babbitt hit the first ball. From the sound of the bat hitting the ball, McCarthy knew the hit was not on the ground, and as he started homeward a glance showed him that Merode, the speedy little center fielder, was running back into the deep field with his eye on the ball. It was a fly-out unless Merode muffed, and McCarthy, knowing that such a muff happens only four or five times a season, returned and perched upon second base, ready to sprint for third the instant the ball struck the fielder's hands. The thought flashed through his brain that the Blues had released Merode because of a weak arm and a habit of lobbing the ball back to the infielders instead of throwing it back with all his power. The ball fell into the upstretched hands of the outfielder. McCarthy leaped and raced for third base. He knew that Merode would not throw there because of his weak arm and the length of the throw, so he swung a little outside the base path, slowed up as he turned third, and glanced toward the field. The ball was coming in. Merode had thrown it slowly and carelessly toward the shortstop. McCarthy leaped forward toward the plate. The shortstop, running out to meet the slow throw, heard the cry of alarm from the fielders and the roar of excitement from the crowd. He knew what was happening. He grabbed the ball, whirled and threw like a shot to the plate. McCarthy was two-thirds of the way home; but the ball, striking the ground, bounded into the hands of the catcher six feet ahead of him. Like a flash McCarthy hurled his body inside the line, with one foot outstretched to touch the goal. He had out-guessed the catcher. His foot, stretched out, felt the sharp jar of some object, then struck the plate, and, rolling over and over, he arose covered with dust. The crowd was roaring. Nine out of ten thought McCarthy had counted with the tying run, but Bill Tascott, crouching over the plate, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, signaling that the runner was out and the Bears beaten. Like flood waters breaking a dam, the crowd surged from the stands, shouting, screaming, threatening. A thousand men, mad with disappointment, swarmed around the umpire, pushing, shoving, shaking fists and screaming. McCarthy pushed his way hurriedly into the mob, which was growing more and more threatening. "Let him alone. He was right," he cried loudly. "The ball touched my foot as I slid in."