“Not on your autograph;” answered the sailor. “He has not yet promulgated the double-shoot through the sunny atmosphere. Perchance I made a mistake in admitting to him that we intended to bat it with extreme vigor the moment he passed it out to us. But linger yet a while and I prophesy that he will hand it forth.”
Marcey, the third baseman, now came up. He did not attempt to hit the first ball pitched, for it seemed too wide. It swept in over the outside corner, however, and the umpire, who had a good eye and knew his business, declared it a strike.
Marcey flung down his bat, sprang onto the plate and glared at the umpire.
“What’s that?” he snarled.
“Rotten! rotten!” howled a man on the bleachers, who sat in such a position that he could not tell to save his life whether the ball came over the plate. “Put him out! Get a new umpire! Put him out! He’s roasting you! I’ve got some money on this game, and I want to see a square deal.”
“Shut up!”
“Sit down!”
“Choke off!”
“Keep still!”
“Go die!”