Bill Hagin stepped blithely to the pan, and Fargo danced away from first.
The Hornet backstop was a fast man on the paths. To play for Jim Brennan a single season a man had to be that, and Fargo had been three years with the organization. Quick as a cat on his feet, he seemed to know by intuition just when the pitcher meant to deliver the ball to the batsman. For this reason he was able to get under headway in base stealing even before the horsehide left the pitcher’s fingers. Although Schaeffer drove him back several times, Fargo got his start on the first ball handed up to Hagin, and was off like a racer. Kenny made a fine throw the length of the diamond, but it was a fraction of a second too slow.
Warned by the disastrous results of the last attempt, Schaeffer made no effort to intimidate the second batter. Hagin had the look of a man who eats speed, and his record quite bore out that impression. The Texan worked so carefully that he succeeded in getting two strikes on the outfielder, but this seemed simply to put the latter on his mettle. He finally placed his bat against the horsehide with precision and force for a long drive into deep center, which the fielder missed by less than a foot.
Hagin was ready to take second on the throw-in, while Fargo, hitting the high spots, rounded third, and was urged home by the coacher. The ball was sent to second, and Hagin was driven back to the first station.
“Here’s where we tie up!” cried Ogan jubilantly. “Here’s where we take the lead! Smash her out, Sandy.”
Rollins, second baseman, stepped up with the expression of one who has every intention of making connections with the horsehide. Schaeffer had recovered from his momentary annoyance, and was on the job. He pulled the batter with the first ball pitched, which curved beyond Rollins’ reach. Then came a foul tip, that counted as a strike, and Sandy flushed a little as he stepped into the box again.
“This time he’ll send over a hummer,” he thought, taking a fresh grip on his stick.
Schaeffer went through the movements which seemed to indicate that he was going to whip the ball over with terrific speed, but now, instead of a scorcher, he sent in a ball that seemed to hang and drag in the air, and Rollins struck too soon.
“You’re out!” said the umpire.
“That’s the goods, Zack!” laughed Kenny, pounding his mitt. “They can’t touch you. Put this sorrel-top in cold storage for me.”