“You’re out!” declared the umpire.
The captain of the Outcasts looked very much chagrined as he retired to the bench.
“What’s the matter?” asked Crackson Swatt. “Is the whole bunch hypnotized?”
“Something is the matter for a fact,” admitted Hurley. “Try to bunt it, Swatt. We’ve got to find a way to get our bats against the ball.”
The entire team had great confidence in Swatt. At the beginning of their career the Outcasts had batted with Swatt in the eighth position, like most professional teams; but his stick work had been so good that it was found advisable to move him up directly behind Hurley.
“Do project the ball somewhere, Swattsie!” implored Cap’n Wiley. “This continued agitation of the atmosphere without visible results is a weariness to the flesh. It will retire me to the bughouse before long.”
Although four of his companions, all good batters, had failed to get a hit off Frank, Swatt was confident.
“He can’t fool me,” he told himself. “I’ll hit it somewhere.”
The first ball pitched by Merry passed behind Crackson’s back, which caused him to laugh.
“Keep spitting on it,” he said, “and you’ll throw it over the grand stand before the game is ended. You can’t control it. Better stop wetting it and pitch your usual way.”