Hicksley now was plainly cracking, and when he issued another “pass,” filling the bases, Frank motioned him to retire and beckoned Bobby to the box.
Hicksley glared at Bobby as the latter came forward.
“Sorry, Hicksley,” said Bobby regretfully, as he reached out for the ball. “You pitched a dandy game for the first six innings.”
“Yes, you’re sorry a lot,” snarled Hicksley. “You’re tickled to death at the chance to show me up.”
Instead of handing the ball to Bobby, he threw it angrily on the ground and slouched away to the bench.
Bobby’s eyes flashed, but he controlled himself, quietly picked up the ball and took his position in the box. It was no time now to get angry when he needed above all things to keep cool.
It was a trying position for so young a player. The bases were full with no one out, and the Somerset rooters were yelling at the top of their lungs, trying to rattle him.
A clean hit would bring in at least one run, probably two. Even a long fly to the outfield would probably enable the man on third to score.
“Go to it, Bobby, old boy!” called Fred from short.
“You can hold them!” encouraged Mouser.