But Hammerswell was keeping under cover just then. He had decided to keep out of sight and could not be found.
The umpire warned the crowd, but his warning proved ineffective. They laughed at him and invited him to “go fall off the earth.”
Bradley seemed deaf to all the racket. He missed a good one over the outside corner, then let two pass and struck under a sharp rise.
“You can’t hit, you lobster!” whooped one of the thugs.
“Back to the fool house!” yelled another.
“Where did you get that face?” howled a third. “It’s enough to frighten a Hottentot!”
But these things were mild beside some of the language used, and the ladies were shocked by what they were compelled to hear.
“This is the end of Hammerswell’s baseball days in Maplewood,” said Dick to Buckhart. “He may last through the season, but I’ll guarantee he never again runs a team here.”
“The varmint ought to be hanged!” snarled the Texan. “A rope and a limb is what’s coming to him.” Bradley finally cracked out a clean single and easily took first.
Then Buckhart walked to the plate and slammed the ball fairly against centre-field fence. It rebounded and was lost in some grass near the fence.