The last of the eighth delighted the admirers of the Outcasts, for they got after the colored pitcher in earnest and “sent him on an aërial voyage.” The result was three more runs.
“I told you, Grafter!” wheezed Gowan. “I knew what would happen! Why, our boys have been fooling with the nigs! They can’t be beaten by anything outside the big leagues, and we know they can more than hold their own with the big fellows. There isn’t an independent team in the country that can take a game off this bunch.”
A young, healthy-looking, smooth-faced fellow had approached just in time to hear this remark.
“What do you think about that, boy?” asked Grafter. “Gentlemen, this is my son, Wallace.”
“I think the gentleman is mistaken,” said Wallace Grafter quietly. “I am confident that I know an independent baseball team that can wallop the Outcasts to a whisper.”
“You have another think due you!” exclaimed McGann warmly.
“Two more,” said Gowan.
“Are you in earnest, son?” inquired old Grafter.
“You bet,” nodded Wallace.