The Blues didn’t do much of anything. The mysterious Smith was too much for the first three batsmen and they all went out on strikes. The last one, however, nearly got his base by reason of a third strike which got past the catcher. The ball headed him off at the base, though, and the first inning ended with only six men having seen the plate.
“That’s the only thing that may give our boys a look-in,” said Mr. Talbot.
“You mean passed balls?” asked Mr. Hall. “That’s so; that catcher of theirs is finding it pretty hard to hold the pitcher.”
As Steve Arbuckle, last year’s manager of the nine, phrased it, setting a neat “k” in the appropriate space, “Another redskin bit the dust!” Which, interpreted, meant that the first Lynton batter had fallen before Tom’s curves. That brought Smith, the pitcher, up, and the audience on the bench watched curiously. He was a good-looking chap, but, as Mr. Hall insisted, there was something in his appearance that suggested the professional, or, perhaps, semi-professional ball player. It may have been the easy, untroubled, almost listless manner in which he walked to the plate, rubbed his hands on the seams of his trousers, swung his bat once, and then faced Tom Pollock. “For all the world,” muttered Mr. Hall, “as if he was sure of his pay-envelope whether he hits or doesn’t.”
Tom worked a low one over for a strike and Smith merely glanced at the corner of the plate, over which it had passed. A curve went for a ball. A second crossed knee-high but was too close for a strike. Smith stood motionless, save for the incessant working of his jaws as he chewed gum. Sam, kneeling, laid four fingers vertically against his mitten, the signal for a slow ball. He argued that with two balls on the pitcher, Smith would expect a fast one over the plate. Tom stepped forward and pitched. There was a solid, resounding thud and the ball shot across the diamond, passed like a bullet between shortstop and third baseman and, far out in the field, struck the sod and bounded into centre fielder’s glove. The throw to second was too late to get the runner, however, for the redoubtable Mr. Smith slid beautifully and hooked a foot against the bag before the ball got to him. The small party of Lyntonites shouted delightedly and Mr. Hall and Mr. Talbot exchanged glances.
“Looks as if he’d hit a ball before,” said the latter drily.
“Wouldn’t wonder if he’d run bases before, too,” observed Mr. Talbot. “Lucky thing for us they didn’t have men on bases.”
“Very. Watch him take his lead now. The chap’s a regular player, all right. Look at that!”