Dick looked angry as he came walking in to the bench, where Old Joe calmly smoked away.
“A little hard luck, that’s all,” said Hodge. “Don’t mind it, Dick.”
“No hard luck about it!” flashed Dick. “It was my wretched work that gave them their runs!”
“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot. “Um ball-players hit Injun Heart heap cracko. No let um do so some more.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Dick.
“Don’t worry over it a bit,” smiled Frank. “I’ve been hit lots harder than that in my day, and won my game, too. There’s nothing serious about it yet.”
But Dick was wholly displeased with himself, and he showed it in his angry manner.
Ready chose a bat and ambled out to the plate, chirping:
“It’s your funeral now, Morgan. Oh, Dadie, my boy, we won’t do a single thing to you!”