“One strike,” called the umpire.
“Here! here! here!” laughed Frank. “Don’t be trying to throw yourself at the ball, Fauncie. That won’t do. Hit it with the bat.”
Faunce picked himself up, looking red and disgusted.
“Oh, I’ll hit it next time!” he savagely declared. “I’ll knock the peeling off it!”
“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “Knock the stitches out of it—if you can. I don’t believe you can.”
Some one in the crowd groaned derisively.
“Hello!” said Merry, with perfect good nature. “Your friends are groaning for you now, Hal. They know you have no show to get a hit. Take my advice and wait for two more balls. Perhaps I can’t get ’em over, and you will get a life on four.”
“Oh, you go to—Chicago!” flung back Faunce, nettled. “I’m going to hit her next time, and you want to get off the earth if it comes your way.”
“All right, let her go.”
Bart was ready, and Merry sent another ball flying over the plate. It was another high inshoot, and Faunce swung again, missing it as cleanly as before, and nearly throwing himself down a second time.