“Fruit!” roared Anson, stooping and pounding his mitt[mitt] with his fist. “Ripe fruit! Pluck it, Jack, old boy!”
“He’s a pitcher, Ware!” said Macon. “Pitchers can’t hit a house! You’ve got him!”
“Put them right over the pan!” roared Conway from centre field. “We’re all behind you.”
“He never got a hit in his life,” asserted Crockett. “We have seen him before.”
Now, whatever had been Hal’s intention on walking out to the plate, suddenly a flash of anger came into his eyes and his jaw squared. Ware sent a high one humming past Hal’s head, whereupon the latter looked skyward in a derisive manner.
“Hello! he is an astronomer!” chuckled Roberts. “He is looking for new planets!”
“Fan the astronomer!” shouted Anson.
“Astronomer!” snickered Warren, as he crouched under the bat. “That fits you, old man! You can hit a star easier than that ball!”
Again a high one sped through the air, and again Hal threw his head up in the same contemptuous manner.
“Sus-sus-sus-say,” chattered Chip Jolliby, “don’t you want a sus-sus-sus-stepladder, Darrell?”