“Blay off yourselluf,” returned Villum hotly. “Shud oop und say less. Make a glam of yourselluf if I vas a lopster yes, no! Yaw! You vait till you show me!”
Frank nodded to Billy, and put over a low, straight ball. Ironton waited.
“Strike—one!”
The Clipper shortstop was a wicked hitter, as Merry knew. Seeing that he stood up close to the plate, Chip put over a sharp inshoot, and again the umpire called a strike, as Ironton swung vainly.
He refused to bite at two teasers, however, and again Merry used his in. As if sensing the ball, Ironton pulled back and chopped.
Crack!
Merry reached after the hot liner in vain. It went straight toward the position that Kess should have been playing, while Ironton dug down toward first, amid wild whoops from the bleachers. Then Villum did a surprising thing.
Flinging himself out toward the ball, he lost his balance and slid forward, whirling around. He came down in a cloud of dust.
“By glory, he sat on it!” yelled the fans.
Villum reached beneath himself and pulled out the ball, staring at it in mild astonishment.