At such times there was no one to come to the rescue, as in the first game that Bobby had pulled out of the fire. Spentz, the right fielder, who knew a little about twirling, had replaced him once but had not been able to undo the damage. In the game with Ridgefield, Hicksley had managed to last long enough to win by one run, and in the second game with Somerset had pitched fairly well, though he lost. But Ridgefield had come back with an easy victory, and Belden had fairly smothered him under a shower of hits to every part of the field. So that the outlook was very blue for Rockledge, and the boys fairly squirmed under the crowing of the Belden fellows whenever they met them on the trolley or in the town.
“If we only had Bobby in the box, we’d be going along at the head of the procession,” groaned Fred.
“That yellow streak of Hicksley’s comes out in almost every game,” growled Sparrow.
“He can’t stand the gaff when it comes to a pinch,” assented Skeets gloomily.
“A fellow who would lie as he did about Bobby doesn’t deserve to have any luck,” grunted Pee Wee.
“He’s a hoodoo,” agreed Shiner. “But what are we going to do?” he asked despairingly. “We haven’t anybody else to take his place, now that Bobby is out of it.”
Things were at this stage, when Bobby and Fred, who had been on a trip to town, were caught on their return in a terrific thunder storm. They were lucky enough to find refuge in a culvert under the railroad, and there they waited till the storm had spent its fury.
It was one of the worst storms they ever remembered, and peal after peal of thunder shook the earth, while streaks of jagged lightning shot across the sky.
“Scubbity-yow!” exclaimed Fred, after one particularly violent clap of thunder, followed by a blinding flash. “I’ll bet that hit around here somewhere.”
“I wouldn’t like to be near anything it hit,” replied Bobby.