Toby’s reply to the challenge was a fast ball with a slight curve and Joe guessed it right. Bat and ball met and, although Joe made only a half-swing, the sphere sped straight over Toby’s head—he ducked involuntarily, to the delight of the batters—and travelled far back down the field.
“Don’t touch it!” bawled Buster. “Let it alone, Loomis! Now, then, Toby, shake a leg, old scout! You said you’d field it, you know.”
Toby smiled wanly and kept his promise, jogging far down the field to the surprise of the fielders and the gleeful chortles of the batting squad.
“That was a peach,” declared Steve Hale as Joe, as much surprised as Toby Williams, measured the hit and relinquished his place to Cummings. Joe looked indifferent, but secretly he was as pleased as Punch. There’s something delightfully heartening in the feel and sound of a good, clean hit, and as Joe moved back he still felt the tingle in his palms and experienced an inward glow of satisfaction. That, he reflected, was the first hit he could remember that he had been entirely satisfied with! Of course, it had been made in practice instead of in a game, but still Toby had really been trying to fool him and some measure of credit was due him.
Toby came back, hot and perspiring, from his jaunt, with the recovered ball in his hand, and proceeded to wreak vengeance on Hale. The fellows at the net still guyed him, however, and Hale speedily found a hit. When Buster’s turn came again he asked: “Will you field it, Toby, if I get to you inside of three?”
But Toby had had enough and shook his head, which proved fortunate in the light of succeeding events. Buster, after fouling two, sent a long fly arching out.
When Joe stepped in front of the net Toby waved a hand in sarcastic greeting. “Hit ’em as hard as you like, Faulkner,” he called. “All bets are off!”
Nevertheless, it was soon evident to Joe and the others that Toby didn’t intend his offerings to be hit hard, for he used all his skill, “mixing them up” bewilderingly. One went as a ball, the next was a foul-tip, the third was a doubtful strike, the fourth was another foul. Joe was matching his skill against the pitcher’s, and for the first time he was confident of the result. He let a second strike go past because, although he was certain he could have taken it, it was too low to hit any distance. Again he fouled, going after the ball just as he had been doing down in the schoolhouse basement, and still again. Toby showed impatience.
“Oh, hit one, Faulkner! I’m giving ’em to you soft!”