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In the next half inning our opponents, by clean drives, scored two runs and we in our turn again went out ignominiously. When the first of the eighth came we were desperate and clamored for the “rabbit.”

“I’ve sneaked it in,” said Merritt, with a low voice. “Got it to the umpire on the last passed ball. See, the pitcher’s got it now. Boys, it’s all off but the fireworks! Now, break loose!”

A peculiarity about the “rabbit” was the fact that though it felt as light as the regulation league ball it could not be thrown with the same speed and to curve it was an impossibility.

Bane hit the first delivery from our hoosier stumbling block. The ball struck the ground and began to bound toward short. With every bound it went swifter, longer and higher, and it bounced clear over the shortstop’s head. Lake chopped one in front of the plate, and it rebounded from the ground straight up so high that both runners were safe before it came down.

Doran hit to the pitcher. The ball caromed his leg, scooted fiendishly at the second baseman, and tried to run up all over him like a tame squirrel. Bases full!

Hathaway got a safe fly over the infield and two runs tallied. The pitcher, in spite of the help of the umpire, could not locate the plate for Balknap, and gave him a base on balls. Bases full again!

Deerfoot slammed a hot liner straight at the second baseman, which, striking squarely in his hands, recoiled as sharply as if it had struck a wall. Doran scored, and still the bases were filled.

The laboring pitcher began to get rattled; he could not find his usual speed; he knew it, but evidently could not account for it.

When I came to bat, indications were not wanting that the Canadian team would soon be up in the air. The long pitcher delivered the “rabbit,” and got it low down by my knees, which was an unfortunate thing for him. I swung on that one, and trotted round the bases behind the runners while the center and left fielders chased the ball.

Gillinger weighed nearly two hundred pounds, and he got all his weight under the “rabbit.” It went so high that we could scarcely see it. All the infielders rushed in, and after staggering around, with heads bent back, one of them, the shortstop, managed to get under it. The “rabbit” bounded forty feet out of his hands!

When Snead’s grounder nearly tore the third baseman’s leg off; when Bane’s hit proved as elusive as a flitting shadow; when Lake’s liner knocked the pitcher flat, and Doran’s fly leaped high out of the center fielder’s glove–then those earnest, simple, country ballplayers realized something was wrong. But they imagined it was in themselves, and after a short spell of rattles, they steadied up and tried harder than ever. The motions they went through trying to stop that jumping jackrabbit of a ball were ludicrous in the extreme.

Finally, through a foul, a short fly, and a scratch hit to first, they retired the side and we went into the field with the score 14 to 2 in our favor.

But Merritt had not found it possible to get the “rabbit” out of play!

We spent a fatefully anxious few moments squabbling with the umpire and captain over the “rabbit.” At the idea of letting those herculean railsplitters have a chance to hit the rubber ball we felt our blood run cold.

“But this ball has a rip in it,” blustered Gillinger. He lied atrociously. A microscope could not have discovered as much as a scratch in that smooth leather.

“Sure it has,” supplemented Merritt, in the suave tones of a stage villain. “We’re used to playing with good balls.”

“Why did you ring this one in on us?” asked the captain. “We never threw out this ball. We want a chance to hit it.”