“Mebbe you’ll put me off.”
Lifting his hand in token that time was called, Moulton turned to the angered player and said, “I don’t want to make any trouble. If you don’t know any better——”
“I know what I’m talkin’ about!” interrupted the Bensonite. “I’m telling you I wa’n’t out on first.”
“I called you out.”
“I know ye did, but that doesn’t make it so, does it?”
“Yes. Now leave the field and take your seat.”
The silence among the spectators was tense as the eyes of everyone were turned toward the two boys. “That’s Jim Fuller,” said the farmer boy who, still holding his pitchfork in his hand, was standing beside Silas near third base. “He’s the best wrestler in Benson. That umpire doesn’t want t’ rile him.”
“Don’t ye worry none ’bout th’ umpire,” retorted Silas promptly. “I rather guess he c’n give an’ ’count o’ himself if he has to.”
Both became silent a moment as the protesting Benson player looking angrily at Moulton, finally said: “You’re a robber, but I’m goin’ t’ let ye have your way this time. But if ye call me out again when I hain’t out—why, jes’ look out for yerself. That’s all I’ve got t’ say t’ ye.” As the Benson player turned to seek the place where the fellow-members of his nine were seated, a derisive shout from the Rodman supporters greeted him and he instantly turned and faced the noisy crowd as he shook his fist at them. The game was resumed as Moulton quietly tossed the ball to Dan.