“Atta boy, Weary!” screamed Jim Tapley. “You tell ’em!”
“What do you think now about Slade’s hitting?” demanded Jones. “That drive of his would have gone for a homer sure, if it had got past Dave!”
“Horsefeathers!” snorted Charlie Rogers.
What looked like a break for Truesdell came in their half of the fourth. Dick Somers bunted safely and went down to second on the first pitch, running like a scared rabbit and scoring the first stolen base of the game. Tommy Beals hit a grounder to right field, which was returned to first base before the plump, short-legged youth was half-way there. Dick raced round to third on the play and Truesdell’s chances for a run were excellent. Ned Blake ran out to the third-base coaching line.
“Great work, Dick,” he chattered. “Only one gone! Take a big lead. I’ll watch ’em for you!”
Slugger Slade, the third baseman, threw him a sour look. “Keep back of that coaching line, you!” he snarled.
Dave Wilbur was up, and as the bleachers yelled lustily for a hit, he lifted a high sky-scraper to center field. Dick clung to the bag till he saw the ball settle in the fielder’s glove; then dashed for home. Ordinarily it would have been an easy steal for a runner of Dick’s speed, but he had faltered noticeably in his start and the throw-in to the plate beat him by a narrow margin for the third out.
“I want to enter a protest on that decision!” cried Dick to the umpire, as the Bedford players trooped in from the field.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the official. “The catcher had the ball on you half a yard from the plate!”
“I know that, but I’m claiming interference by the third baseman,” yelped Dick, wrathfully. “He held me by the belt just long enough to spoil my start!”