“Well, dud-dud-dud-don’t do it ag’in, for the lul-lul-lul-love of goodness!” returned the chap on the bleachers. “You know ha-haow you lul-lul-lul-laid up Zeb Nobbins fuf-for six months by hittin’ him that way.”
Then the spectator sat down, looking rather anxious. By this time all the spectators were getting interested, while the players were beginning to mention to one another that the jay had speed when he chose to let it out.
The batter had been surprised and alarmed by the swiftness of the ball, and he now said:
“Look here, you, don’t you hit me with that ball! If you do, I’ll throw the bat at you!”
“If I do,” said the pitcher, “you won’t be in any condition to throw the bat at ennybody, mister.”
Then he tied himself in a knot, as if intending to use his highest speed, but sent in such a slow one that Robinson swung too quick and was deceived. For the third time the strange pitcher gave vent to that braying laugh.
“Why, you chaps are the easiest fooled of anything I ever struck!” he declared. “Why don’t ye hit the ball, not dab at it that way? Git inter gear an’ do somethin’.”
Trueman and the St. Paul players were looking on in astonishment. This was something entirely unexpected, and they were unable to make up their minds in regard to its meaning.
The next ball delivered looked high, and the batter did not swing at it; but it proved to be a drop, and it went down across the batter’s shoulders.