“Blamed rotten, you mean,” Reddy retorted. “I ought to be kicked all over the place.”
Herman Glathe, a tall, blond German, came to the bat; and, at the first delivery, Rooney, who had taken a good lead off the cushion, went down the line toward second like a race horse.
It almost seemed as though Buckhart, having caught the ball, waited an instant for Maxwell to cover the sack. Then he sent the horsehide sphere whistling straight as a bullet into the hands of the red-haired shortstop, who bent a little forward to receive it and jabbed it on to Rooney as the latter slid.
“Out at second!” announced the umpire.
But his decision was almost drowned in the excited shriek which went up from the clubhouse veranda.
“Good boy!” Dick murmured, as he caught the ball.
The next moment Glathe had lined out a clean single into the outfield, and he reached the initial sack amidst a roar of applause from the bleachers.
As though to atone for this, Dick teased Sam Allen, the Mispah second baseman, into striking at the first two balls pitched. Then followed a couple of wide ones, but Sam refused to be further beguiled. At last he landed on what he thought was a good one, and lifted a high foul back of the pan, away near the grand stand.
Like a flash Buckhart snapped off his cage and perked his head up to get its bearings. Then he spread himself and just managed to smother the ball within five feet of the front line of spectators, who shrieked a frenzied approval.
“Two gone, pard,” he grinned, as he lined the ball out to Dick. “See if you can’t fan this Adonis.”