It was now Wiley’s turn to strike.
“Do you think you’ll hit it?” shouted a man on the bleachers.
“Think?” cried Wiley, in his peculiar manner. “How can I miss it? Watch the fence and see me drop it over with the utmost ease.”
“Oh, yah!” cried Dunnerwurst derisively. “You vill drop der fence ofer der pall with Vrankie bitching—I don’d think!”
“Stop talking so carelessly,” advised Wiley. “You get your tongue all tangled up so it falls over itself.”
Twirling his bat as if it was a light cane, the sailor advanced to the plate.
“I am sorry for you, Merry,” he said jauntily. “I have to do it. I believe in setting a good example, and I’ll have to show these dopey dubs how to hit the ball. Once on a time I made a seven-base hit. I galloped round the diamond and came home while the fielders were chasing the merry sphere as it went dancing elusively away. As I reached the plate I heard one of the opposing players inform the umpire that I had failed to touch second sack with my dainty tootsie. I knew it was true. I likewise knew the umpire loved me now and would gladly claim he had seen me cut the cushion. Therefore I started round the diamond again and reached third before the ball was thrown in, thus making seven bases on the hit. I’ll be satisfied with four off you, Frank. It will be a great sufficiency.”
No one save Wiley would have ventured to spend the time to relate such an incident before striking; but the sailor did most things after his own particular fashion, and no one seemed inclined to object.