That there was at least one onlooker who did not agree with Jimmie’s views soon became evident. Busy as Jimmie was getting pictures for his father, he found time to glance along the seats to a spot some fifty feet away where a man with a long, thin face and a fog-horn voice was bellowing from time to time:
“Take him out! He’s rotten! Who said he could pitch? Another ball! What did I tell you? Take him out! Send him back to the stock yards!”
“Who’s your friend?” Jimmie’s father asked teasingly.
“He’s no friend of mine,” Jimmie replied almost in anger. “I’m for Oggie.”
Oggie was in need of friends. In the first inning he gave a base on balls that let in a run. In the third he filled the bases, got out of this hole only by chance, then allowed a two-bagger to bring in another run.
Jimmie saw the manager look toward the bull pen. At the same time the man with the fog-horn voice, standing up with his face very red, was shouting, “Take him out! Back to the stockyards! Ma—a! Ma—a!”
“I wish someone would swat him!” Jimmie exclaimed.
“He’s asking for it,” his father replied. “He’ll probably get it.”
Oggie was given one more inning and this time he made good. No runs were scored. What was more, in his time at bat he hit out a Texas leaguer and brought in a run. Then the society ladies in the reserved seats screamed.
But the man with a red face bawled all the louder: