“What?”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t play perfessional baseball fer two hundred dollars a week, and I mean business when I say so. I’m jest doin’ this ter-day fer the fun of the thing, an’—— Well, gol-dinged ef that feller ain’t out!”
The next batter had been thrown out at first.
“Now do your handsomest,” urged Trueman. “If you hold ’em down I’ll give you five dollars.”
“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” brayed the queer character. “Don’t be so dinged generous. If you’d said twenty-five it’d sounded better. I’ll do my best ter hold ’em down, but you kin keep your old fiver in your trousers.”
Then he walked out onto the diamond in the same slouching, careless way.
Old Joe Crowfoot and Dick were now seated on the St. Paul bench, having been placed there as mascots. The savage had wrapped his dirty blanket about his shoulders once more, and he was stoically puffing away at a long black pipe. The boy, however, was quivering with excitement, although he did his best to repress it.
The work of the jay in that inning was something amazing. First he called down the catcher for a bit of private talk, and the catcher was heard to exclaim:
“What are you giving me! Impossible! It can’t be done! Of course I can hold it!”