Ten more tallies were recorded before the half-inning closed. The whole North Star nine was red from running after the ball and disputing with the umpire—disputes into which everybody on the ground had earnestly entered. Red Conroy had threatened to “smash” several North Stars, you among them; Catcher Billy had long since witnessed his cylinder trampled into the diamond and ruined; Captain Fat had tried all the most deadly twists in his repertoire; when, finally, hot and irritated, you and yours had come in.
And now, reminding Pitcher Doc that he had promised not to throw hard, Billy stepped to the plate, to hit, to reach first, daringly to steal second, foolishly to be caught between bases, successfully to dash past Red, who endeavored to trip him, and out of the confusion safely to attain third, whence soon he galloped home, and tallied.
“’Leven to five!” declared the sprawling spectators, every one a score-keeper, to each other, as at last in scampered the Second-streets and out lagged the North Stars.
You had not batted, and you were relieved, because batting was a great responsibility, with your critical fellows advising you, and castigating you whenever you missed.
In this their next inning the Second-streets made fourteen! Notwithstanding Fat’s utmost art, as signified by his various occult motions, they batted him only too easily, and kept infield and outfield chasing all over the lot. Yet he angrily refused to “let somebody else pitch.” Bob Leslie even attempted to take the ball away from him and forcibly trade places—a mutiny which called forth an “Aw, g’wan an’ play ball, you kids!” from the waiting batter, Screw Major.
“Why don’t you fellows stop some of them grounders, then?” retorted Fat to derogatory accusations. “Gee whiz! You don’t stop nothin’!”
Thus it resolved into a question of whether ’t was not stopping, or having o’ermuch to stop, that brought disaster.
It was your turn. You faced the mighty Doc. He threw, and the ball came like a cannon—shot, you thought.
“You’re throwin’ swift!” you remonstrated.
“Shut up!” sneered Red, from third. “Who’s a—throwin’ swift? Give him one in the head, Doc!”