“Never mind, Pink,” answered Frank. “We’re hitting Curly, and next time we’re at bat I believe we’ll do something.”
Lenaway, left fielder for the Gold Hillers, was the next man to confront Merry.
“Remember what you did before, Chip!” called Clancy. “Don’t try to hog the whole game yourself. Start a man this way and give me a chance to limber up. Start something, old man.”
Lenaway swung at the second ball. He must have caught it on the handle, for it dropped in front of the plate and rolled briskly down toward Clancy, just inside the path.
“It’s mine, Chip!” yelped Clancy, and darted at the rolling sphere.
The red-headed chap booted the ball, and by the time he had laid hold of it, Lenaway was roosting comfortably on first. Frank had run to cover the base. He now went back to the mound, wondering what in the deuce had got into Clancy.
“Wow!” cried Lenaway. “You can handle a paddle, Red, a heap easier than you can field a grounder.”
“Don’t talk to me,” grunted Clancy, in a spasm of self-reproach, “I’m sore enough.”
“Well, return the ball so I can take a lead.”
“There it goes,” and Clancy tossed the sphere to Merry.