"Waiting," answered Rex.
The horsehide struck the catcher's mitt, seemingly the next second.
"Oh, boy!" yelled Red Phillips, giving credit where credit was due. "Some speed!"
Kingdon tossed the sphere back. The bullet that next shot over hummed like a bee. Kingdon spread his legs wider and waited impassively for the third ball. Pence took more time about it and put even more speed into his throw. It was a wonder. The Walcott Hall lads, camped in the shade, gasped.
A flush had come into the dark fellow's face. He rolled up his sleeve with a vexed motion, spat upon his hand, grinned at the waiting backstop, and drove in his fourth ball.
It was caught as the others had been, but the force of the delivery was so great that Kingdon stepped back to recover his balance. Then he drawled:
"That's four balls. Man takes his base. Say, the speed is all right; why not put over a strike now and then?"
"Your eyesight's bad," declared Pence, poised for another throw. "You're weakening."
"Maybe," Kingdon said, holding up his hand. "But I don't think so. What's the use of having all that speed if you have no control?"
The pitcher's black eyes flashed. "Who says I don't get 'em over?" he snapped.