TOM KEMP
Captain Fat smiled wickedly: the unfortunate batter was being fooled by those deceptive curves.
“What did you strike at that fer—’way up over yer head!” censured Red Conroy, angrily.
“Darn it! gimme a good low ball! You’re ’fraid to!” challenged Captain Spunk.
Whack! He had hit it. Right between Short-stop Chub’s legs it darted, and you and left-field together stopped it, but too late to prevent the runner’s reaching first.
Chub came in for a tongue-lashing from all sides; and then Spunk stole second, and Billy threw over Bob’s head there (at the same time throwing the rag cylinder, also, half-way to the pitcher’s box), and you desperately fielded the ball in, and Fat got it, and threw over Hod’s head at third, and to the wild cries of “Home! Home! Sock her home!” Nixie got it and threw it at Billy; but nevertheless Spunk, spurred on by the frantic exhortations of his fellows, panting “Tally one!” crossed the slab.
Triumphantly cheered the Second—streets, and busily flashed the jack-knife of each spectator as he cut a tally-notch in a stick.
Billy ran forward and reclaimed his precious rag.
NIXIE KEMP