“I can’t do it,” was the mutinous reply, “without going out into the lake.”
“Well, go there then.”
“I’ll see you hanged first; you do it.”
“Don’t get sassy; I’m not one of the spectators. Hans Wagner, shift to the right.”
“If I do,” said the other fielder, “I’ll have to get behind a tree.”
“You’ll be of as much use there as where you are.”
“Go ahead and pitch the ball, if you know how to do such a thing.”
Bobby pretended not to hear this slur, but drawing back his right arm, hurled the ball toward the plate. It was wide, but Alvin struck at it, missing by about three feet. It went past the catcher as he clawed at it and he had to hunt several minutes before finding the elusive object, which he tossed back to Bobby, who without any more remarks shot it forward and Alvin swung at it. He hit it fairly too, though harder than he intended. It rose some fifty feet and flitted like a flash among the trees. Alvin hurled his bat aside, narrowly missing the umpire, and ran for first base. Arrived there, he glared around.
“Where’s second base?” he called; “Ty Cobb, you moved it!”
“It got in the way of my feet; I flung it into the lake.”