“One strike-out,” called Leyden. “Try again, Pumper. Perhaps you’ll do better next time.”
A tinge of red leaped into the cheeks of Welch, and he bit his lips angrily.
“Yes, that’s once,” he admitted. “I’m all through encouraging the kid.”
“You’ve been very kind,” said Dick, with mock gratitude.
“He’s laughing at you, Welch,” whispered Towne behind his outspread hand.
Pumper set his teeth and squared his jaw, gripping the bat fiercely. An outcurve nearly led him into reaching, but he checked himself just in time for Leyden to call a ball instead of a strike. Another outcurve followed and Welch edged up close to the rubber, his toes almost touching it.
Dick now grasped the ball firmly with two fingers, while his curved thumb touched it very lightly. Keeping his hand in an upright position as he swung, he let the ball go over the tips of his fingers with a lateral motion. All the speed he could command was put into this delivery. When the ball left his fingers it was turning from right to left and apparently aimed to cross the outside corner of the plate.
Just as Welch swung the sphere took a sudden inshoot, and he actually felt its breath as it twisted past his ear.
Realizing he had been deceived by a high inshoot that had nearly hit him, Welch snarled at the freshman:
“Look out there! You came near hitting me in the head then! You want to be careful!”