Bleeker was the first man to toe the plate for the Gold Hillers. Clancy, from first, had to do all the ragging, for the backstop remained as silent as usual.
“Now for the first victim, Chip. This is Bleek. You know Bleek? Well, he’s going to look pretty bleak when you get through with him. Start the circus!”
“Don’t be hard on your old friends, Chip,” grinned Bleeker.
There was an air of jaunty confidence about Bleeker which suggested three-baggers and home runs. Frank believed that this was a good place to take a reef in Bleek’s aspirations.
He led off with a jump ball, and the speed behind it made the spectators jerk themselves together wonderingly. The sphere spanked into the backstop’s mitt with a report like that of a rifle. Somewhere on its erratic course Bleek had taken a swat at the deceptive object.
“Strike!” shouted the umpire.
A chorus of jeers went up from around the diamond. Bleek, hardly realizing what had happened, stood looking foolishly at the end of his bat.
“Wake up, old man!” warned Darrel from the bench. “Mind your eye, and don’t reach for the wide ones.”
From the way Merry started the next ball it looked like it was going to be another lightning express, but when it crossed the plate it was jogging along like a slow freight. Bleek, expecting something speedy, smashed at the sphere before it was within a yard of him.
“Strike two!” barked the umpire.