The jay ambled in toward the bench, his arms swinging awkwardly, while his gait seemed to indicate that he was used to walking over rough ground behind a plow. He grinned in the same half-idiotic manner, nodding to the shouting spectators.
Trueman rushed up and caught the fellow by the hand, exclaiming:
“You got out of that hole splendidly! I thought those men would get in one score, at least.”
“They never could have done northing of the kind if the ketcher could hold me. I don’t dare to more’n half let myself aout.”
“You don’t mean that you have still greater speed?”
“I mean that I’ve gut a few things up my sleeve that them other chaps never seen, b’gorry! I ain’t tried to use my best curves at all. I don’t darst to do it for fear of havin’ a parst ball.”
Trueman looked at the strange fellow, wondering if he could be joking; but the jay seemed perfectly serious, as if he actually meant every word he said.
“What kind of curves can you have that are so wonderful?” exclaimed the captain of the St. Paul team.
“I gut a gol-ding funny ball,” was the answer. “It curves both ways.”