“Keep it up, ole boy!” the Sawtown men screamed. “You kin do it—you got us all guessin’—make us run de bases—dat’s de right boy!”
“Oh, fer de Lawd’s sake, Figger,” Skeeter squealed, “see ef you cain’t pitch jes’ one straight ball! Don’t put nothin’ on it—jes’ throw it straight an’ easy!”
Figger threw it straight and easy. A child could have hit it with a lead-pencil. What the batter did to that ball will never be known. It sailed over the top of the highest trees like a bird, and is lying hidden in the Dorfoche woods yet. Then this colored Ty Cobb walked around the bases and sat down on the home plate, conversing in the meantime with Figger Bush with choice language.
Prince Total threw aside his mask and chest-protector and walked down to the pitcher’s box just as the umpire tossed out a new ball.
“Figger, you is de wust pitcher I ever seen!” Prince howled. “You git up dar an’ ketch, an’ lemme see kin I fan dese niggers out. My Gawd, you muss be crippled under yo’ hat to play ball like you is doin’!”
“I is,” Figger replied, rubbing his woolly scalp like a man in a dream.
Skeeter Butts left the coaching line, ran into the crowd, and seized Coco Ferret by a fat arm.
“Come on outen dis crowd, honey!” he squeaked. “Oh, Lawdy, ef you never done no mascoppin’ before, you git to doin’ it now! Dis is awful!”
“How is mascoppin’ done, Skeeter?” she inquired as the little darky dragged her out of the crowd.
“Gawd knows!” Skeeter panted as he led her out to where all the Tickfall team could see her from the field. “You jes’ nachelly be it—like a luck charm.”