Dave Flint took his place to strike.
“Here’s your third victim, Jack, old boy!” bellowed Anson, from first base. “He is just as easy as the others.”
Ware smiled in a confident manner. He threw the first ball straight at Dave’s head, but Flint avoided it with ease. The next one was a drop, and the boy with the scar gently lifted it over the infield for a safe single.
“There! there!” breathed Doris Templeton. “Now you see!”
“Here comes Hal!” exclaimed Zona. “What will he do?”
“Oh, I hope he gets a hit!” exclaimed Doris, her hands pressed together and her anxiety betrayed in her face.
“Jack Ware won’t let him,” retorted Bessie Dale. “Jack never lets any one get a hit off him at a critical time.”
“This isn’t critical yet,” said Zona. “This is only the beginning of the game.”
“That’s true,” nodded Bessie. “If he did get a hit it isn’t likely your team could score off it.”
“Well! well! well! what’s this?” cried Roberts, dancing around in his position back of the base line between second and third.