 The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville Nine that day, the score stood two to four with, but one inning left to play. So, when CUNY died at second, and Barrows did the same. A pal of reason, the features of the patrons of the... A struggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest clung to the hope that springs eternal within the human breath. For they thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that. They'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake. And the former was a Lulu, and the latter was a cake. So, upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat. For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let fly a single to the wonderment of all. And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball. So, when the dust had settled and they saw what had occurred, there was Jimmy, safe at second, and Flynn, a huggin third. Then, from five thousand throats and more, there rose a lusty yell. It rumbled through the valley. It rattled in the dale. It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat. For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place. There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat. No stranger in the crowd could doubt, was Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. Then, while the rising pitcher ground the ball onto his hip, defiance glanced from Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now, the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air. And Casey stood a-watching it in a haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman of the bald unheated sped. That ain't my style, said Casey. Strike one, the Empire said. From the benches black with people there went a muffled roar, like the beating of the stormwaves on a stern and distant shore. Kill him! Kill the Empire! Shouted someone from the stand, and it's likely they'd have done it had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone. He's still derising cold. He bade the game go on. He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew. But Casey still ignored it, and the Empire said, strike two. Okay, fraud cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered fraud. But one scornful look from Casey, and the audience was odd. They saw his face grow stern and cold. They saw his muscles strain. And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip. His teeth are clenched in hate. He pounds with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go. And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. And the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout. But there is no joy in Montville. Mighty Casey has struck out.