At the very outset, Hodge called for Frank’s new curve.
“Oh, he’s going to deliver the salivered sphere!” cried Wiley, as he saw Frank moisten the ball. “Hit one of those and it will travel at the rate of a mile a second.”
“Cease thy idle prattle, cap’n,” implored Ready, who was in position near third. “You are giving the tympanum of my ear a sensation of ennui.”
“Hey?” gasped the sailor. “What’s that? Ong wee? Is that proper pronunciation? I thought it was enn-you-eye. Ong wee! That sounds good to me. I’ll use it at the first opportunity.”
Frank delivered the ball. It swept downward from his hand toward the inside of the plate, but curved and swept upward and outward, crossing the outside corner.
Creel had looked for the usual drop of the spit ball, and he struck under.
“Strike one!”
The batter looked surprised. He knew the ball had taken some kind of a queer shoot, but he did not know just what had happened.
“Hit it where you missed it, Creel, old boy!” urged Wiley. “Look out for the double-shoot. He’ll hand one up in a minute, and you will have an opportunity to demonstrate the ease with which we can project it to yonder fence.”