“G’wan!” growled Red Conroy. “Don’t you do it, Spunk. ‘Tain’t goin’ to hurt his old ball any.”
Awed by the ever-belligerent Red, Fat submitted to the customary lot by bat. Spunk tossed a bat at him, and he caught it, with an elaborate show of method, about the middle; then with alternate hands they proceeded to cover it upward to the end.
The last hand for which there was space was Fat’s; by no manner of means could Spunk squeeze his grimy fist into the two inches left.
“We’ll take our outs,” majestically asserted Captain Fat; whereat whooped shrilly all the North Stars, and quite regardless of their affiliations whooped shrilly the spectators also, composed of small brothers and a few friends about equally divided between the contestant nines.
Some preliminaries were yet to be gone through with. Doc Kennedy was protested because he pitched so swift.
“Aw, I won’t throw hard,” he assured bluffly.
“Of course not! He’s easy to hit,” chorused his companions.
Then, in view of the fact that Billy Lunt had a sore finger, as evidenced by a cylinder of whitish rag (which he slipped off, obligingly, whenever solicited), it was agreed that he be allowed to catch the third strike on the first bounce.
SCREW MAJOR