“If you’d been hit in the head, Pumper, you might have blamed yourself,” said Leyden. “You’re standing on top of the rubber. Get back the proper distance.”
By this time Welch was both angry and ashamed. He sullenly moved back from the plate, feeling his blood leaping hotly in his veins.
“I’ve got to hit the next one I swing at,” he thought. “I’ve got to—and I will.”
In spite of this determination, he merely fouled the next ball he went after.
“Saved yourself by touching it,” said Leyden. “You still have a chance.”
Thus far, with the single exception of the raise ball, Dick had been using speed. He now swung overhand as if intending to throw a swift one, but when the ball left his fingers it seemed to hang in the air as if some invisible force was retarding it. Welch saw it coming and knew it would cross the pan fairly. He was impatient to hit at it, and, in spite of himself, he could not wait until the ball was near enough. Swinging far too soon, he missed it entirely. Some of the spectators laughed.
Welch longed to send his bat spinning at Dick Merriwell’s head, for there is nothing so provoking to a batter as to be fooled by a slow ball. It makes him feel foolish, and the laughter that invariably greets his ears arouses his ire.
“That’s two strike-outs, and you haven’t even hit a little one into the diamond, Welch,” reminded Leyden. “The youngster is fooling you.”
Welch was at a loss for words.
“Where’s Henderson?” cried some one. “Carl’s the man to bump that sort of pitching.”