Buster borrowed a baseball from the bag and followed Joe across to the stretch used by pitchers when they warmed up. “What’s the big idea?” he asked.
“Shoot it to me,” said Joe. He held his hands in front of his chest. “Don’t curve it, Buster. Just put it to me straight.”
“It’s got to curve some,” objected Buster. “Here you are.”
Joe made a stab well to the left of him and saved himself a trip down the field.
“Try again,” he said, throwing the ball back. “Try to hit my hands, Buster. See if you can’t throw right into them.”
“Come a little nearer. I can’t see your hands so well. That’s better.”
Buster sped the ball off again, and again it went wide, although not so wide as before. When the ball came back to him he made rather an awkward task of catching it. Joe followed the ball.
“Let’s have it,” he said quietly. Buster yielded it, troubledly. “Catch,” said Joe and tossed the ball to the other from some four feet away. Buster put up his hands quickly, his forehead a mass of wrinkles and his eyes half-closed, and the ball tipped his fingers and struck his chest.
“What are you scowling for?” asked Joe.