had again tied the score. They were indomitable.
They grew stronger all the time. A stroke of
good luck now would clinch the game for them.
The Rube was beginning to labor in the box; Ashwell
was limping; Spears looked as if he would
drop any moment; McCall could scarcely walk.
But if the ball came his way he could still run.
Nevertheless, I never saw any finer fielding than
these cripped players executed that inning.

``Ash--Mac--can you hold out?'' I asked, when
they limped in. I received glances of scorn for
my question. Spears, however, was not sanguine.

``I'll stick pretty much if somethin' doesn't
happen,'' he said; ``but I'm all in. I'll need a
runner if I get to first this time.''

Spears lumbered down to first base on an
infield hit and the heavy Manning gave him the hip.
Old Spears went down, and I for one knew he
was out in more ways than that signified by
Carter's sharp: ``Out!''

The old war-horse gathered himself up slowly
and painfully, and with his arms folded and his
jaw protruding, he limped toward the umpire.

``Did you call me out?'' he asked, in a voice
plainly audible to any one on the field.