“You’re out of your box,” declared Lefty. “I’m liable to hit you.”
“I’ll take a chance, Willie,” the Texan retorted offensively. “I ain’t seen you pass up anything very dangerous so far.”
Nevertheless, at the umpire’s command, he edged back grudgingly, but persisted in keeping a bit of his toes over the line.
“The close ones for him,” Lefty decided swiftly. “With that reach of his, he can hit anything a foot outside the pan.”
He therefore shook his head when Fargo signaled. When the big backstop changed the sign, Lefty, after a glance at the base runners, used a short, swift delivery, and passed up an inshoot, intending to keep the ball close to the knuckles of the batter.
Schaeffer stepped in, and was unable to dodge that shoot. It caught him glancingly, high up on the body, and made him stagger a bit. Then, growling a few choice epithets, he obeyed the umpire’s signal to take his base.
“That man stepped out of his box, Mr. Umpire,” Fargo protested. “He wouldn’t have been hit if he’d kept his place.”
“Aw, cut that out!” snarled Schaeffer, limping in an exaggerated manner. “I was hit a-purpose. Just wait, my young squab,” he added out of the corner of his mouth to Lefty. “I’ll get you.”
The umpire refused to reverse his decision.
As he took the ball from Fargo, Lefty’s blood was tingling, and his face flushed. He managed to keep a grip on his temper, however. With the bases full and only one out, coolness was at a premium.