He turned away, leaving Dirk with a flaming face. Suppose he had made that catch seem a bit harder—what was the harm? He really had stumbled, but there had been no danger of dropping the ball. What right had Reardon to call him a swell-head, just because——? But secretly, Dirk knew that Lefty had spoken justly.
With burning cheeks, he watched Soapy Mullins fan out. Brick Ryan, after tipping two fouls, was allowed to walk. Ken Haviland stalled, taking two strikes while Brick stole second, and outguessed on a fast inshoot, dropped his bat as the umpire called him out.
“Wake up, you fielder!” Lefty was calling. Dirk realized that he was next.
A little chill chased itself up his spine as he grabbed his own bat and hurried to the plate. But as he stepped up and faced Bollard’s wind-up, all his nervousness left him. He’d show these kids—and Lefty Reardon in particular—that he could save their old ball-game yet. He knew he was good. He knew he was going to hit.
“Ball one!”
He hadn’t moved. Bollard was worried, and he kept a wary eye on Brick, who was fully prepared to steal to third at an instant’s notice. The Lenape boys set up a roar.
“He’ll walk you, Van! Let him do it!” advised Captain Reardon.
Dirk’s face did not show that he had heard. He was out after a hit. He let the next one go by, and waited for a good one. It came.
Sock! He had placed it just right, a red-hot cannonball that went through shortstop like a rocket. Dirk’s cleats spurned the dusty track that led to first base.
Behind him rose the shrieks of Lenape and Shawnee. Among them he thought he heard the voice of Lefty Reardon, but he gave it not a thought. That swat was good for a two-bagger or nothing. He tapped first with his toe, and streaked for second. The shouts grew louder, but there was nobody in his path. Evidently the fielder was still tangled up in his own feet. Maybe a three-bagger——? Dirk leaped on second base, shook the sweat out of his eyes, and looked ahead.