Locke had begun to let himself out in earnest, for the situation was threatening. It would not be wise needlessly to permit the Wind Jammers to get the jump. They were a confident, aggressive team, and would fight to the last gasp to hold an advantage. The southpaw realized that it would be necessary to do some really high-grade twirling to prevent them from grabbing that advantage in short order.
Tug Schepps, a tough-looking, hard-faced person, was swinging two bats and chewing tobacco as he waited to take his turn. He was a product of the sand lots.
“Land on it, Barney, old top!” urged Tug. “Swat it on der trade-mark an’ clean der sacks. Dis Lefty boy don’t seem such a much.”
Locke shot over a high one.
“Going up!” whooped O’Reilley, ignoring it.
“Get ’em down below the crow’s nest,” entreated Wiley. “You’re not pitching to Bemis now.”
The southpaw quickly tried a drop across the batter’s shoulders, and, not expecting that the ball had so much on it, Barney let it pass. He made a mild kick when the mayor-umpire called a strike. “It’s astigmatism ye have, Mr. Mayor,” he said politely.
The next one was too close, but O’Reilley fell back and hooked it past third base. Even though the left fielder had been playing in, Nuccio might possibly have scored had he not stumbled as he rounded the corner. Wiley started to grab the fallen runner, but remembered the new rule just in time, and desisted.
“Put about!” he shouted. “Head back to the last port!”
The Italian scrambled back to the sack, spluttering. He reached it ahead of the throw from the fielder. Cap’n Wiley pretended to shed tears.