He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators.
He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the fag-end of the game.
The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher's wrist, but Dick nerved himself for better efforts.

Despite him, however, a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the bases were full.
"_O-o-oh, Dick_!" It was a wail, full of despair.

Though he paid no direct heed to it the sorely pressed young pitcher put up his left hand to wipe the old sweat out of his eyes.

His heart was pounding with the strain of it.

Dick Prescott, born soldier, would have died for victory, _just_ then.