Every member of the Sawtown team sprang into the air, emitted ecstatic whoops, and plastered the helpless Figger with every name in their vocabulary which they thought would stick.
When Bush finally threw the ball it went over the plate ten feet in the air, and a giggling batboy chased it until it struck against a stump on the edge of the bayou and stopped.
“Oh, Figger!” Skeeter screamed, with a sob in his voice. “Whut’s de matter, pardner? Whut ails ye? I got my dollars on ye, Figger; buck up, fer Gawd’s sake——”
Bush’s answer was a pitched ball which struck the ground three feet in front of the plate, bounced waist-high to the batter, and was slugged far over in the left field, where it fell in a slough, and the fielder had to wade in the muck to his knees to get it.
“You’re all right, Figger!” the Sawtown players shrieked. “You suits us fine! Don’t let Skeeter Butts git yo’ goat!”
Figger’s eyes twitched, his jaws worked on his tobacco quid like a mill, his knees grew weak and wabbly. He wound up to throw the ball, then suddenly stopped his operations, straightened up, and felt at the top of his head as if something had hit him.
He threw four balls in rapid succession, not one of which came within ten feet of the plate, and the batter walked to the first.
He threw another ball, hit the batter on the elbow, and he walked to first.
He threw another ball, the batter tapped it, and it dropped at the feet of Figger Bush.
Figger wiped the bitter sweat out of both eyes, stooped down with great deliberation, picked up the ball, wiped the dust off of it on his ragged shirt, and threw it to first just as the three Sawtown men came over the home plate!