“That’s pitching ’em, Tom, old boy! That’s pitching ’em!”
“No one sees first this inning, fellows! On your toes now!”
The head of the Petersburg batting-list retired to the bench, flicking his bat disgustedly toward the pile. Just four balls had settled him. The next youth up was a clever bunter and the infield shortened a little. Tom sped them in low; one strike; one ball; two strikes; two balls——
Then the batsman was streaking for first and Bert Meyers, coming on the dead run, was scooping up the trickling ball. A quick underhand throw, a stab into the air of Buster’s “meat hand,” and two men were out. Petersburg put the next batsman on first, but went into the field a minute or two later when Tom made his second strike-out. Amesville cheered then and kept on cheering until Buster had tapped the plate with his bat and stood awaiting his fate. But neither Buster nor Bert Meyers, who followed, was able to solve the opposing pitcher. Frank Warner reached his base on a scratch hit that was too hard for second baseman to handle, but was out a minute later on an attempted steal.
Again Amesville took the field and again Tom, working with machine-like precision, mowed the enemy down in one, two, three order. For Amesville, Tommy Hughes struck out, Sidney reached first on a wild throw by second baseman, Smithie fanned, and Kenny went out to centre fielder. Calvert, the Petersburg slab artist, was in fine form to-day. When all is said, there’s nothing like a roasting hot day to show a pitcher at his best, and it was very evident that the redoubtable Calvert, a small, wiry youth with a shock of hair the colour of butcher’s paper, liked the conditions. In spite of the fact that up to the end of the third inning no one got beyond first base, the contest proved breathlessly exciting to both the supporters of the home team and to the good-sized contingent that had travelled over from the neighbouring town. It was a pitchers’ battle, with the honours about even, but one never knows in baseball when a break will come. A lucky hit, an error at a critical moment, a close decision by an umpire—any of these things are often sufficient to start a rally and, in a few short minutes, change the entire complexion of the game. When Petersburg came to bat in the first of the fourth there was tension evidenced amongst players and spectators both. Petersburg had three of her best batters coming up.
If Tom felt the tension he didn’t show it. Mr. George, seated on the bench beside Coach Talbot, voiced admiration in low tones. “I never saw a youngster who had the form that kid’s got,” he said to the coach as Tom, settling his visor over his eyes, leaned forward to get the signal from the catcher. “He’s a born pitcher, Bat; you can’t get around it!”
“Yes,” Mr. Talbot nodded. “In about three years from now he will be a wonder. Ever hear him say whether he was going to college?”
“I’ve heard him say he wanted to,” replied the detective, “but he doesn’t think he will be able to. There isn’t much money, I guess.”
“He’s got to go, Ben. I’m going to talk to him about it. I’d like to steer him to my college, if I could.”
“He could play professional ball in two or three years if he wanted to,” mused Mr. George. “I could get him a try-out any day, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d be grabbed up by one of the Big League teams.”