Mr. Ling hastily retreated, his face crimson, his ears offended by the loud laughter of the spectators.
The practice of the Outlaws was of that accurate, easy, professional order which marks the work of big teams. The youngsters likewise practiced well, but they lacked the cool atmosphere of indifference and certainty which characterized the professionals.
A man known to be a fair and impartial umpire had been secured. Confident of an all too easy victory, the Outlaws permitted the captain of the opposing team to name this official, and Dick took the man he was advised to take by Loring.
The toss of a coin gave the Outlaws the choice, and they took the field. The umpire called “play,” and the game began with South-paw Pope on the slab.
“Eat ’em alive!” roared Stover.
“Mow ’em down!” shouted Nutty McLoon.
“Be gentle with them!” pleaded Willie Touch.
“Wow! wow!” barked Warwhoop Clinker. “It will be an awful massacre.”
“We’ve never had such a snap as this,” laughed Smiling Joe Brinkley.
Now possibly four out of five of the spectators fully expected to witness a one-sided game, with the Outlaws making a runaway from the very start; and when Stover mowed down Arlington and Blessed Jones at the pan, neither of those batters even touching the ball, it seemed such a sure thing that some sporting individuals were willing to wager that the youngsters would not score at all.