"Strike!"
"Hold your bat out, Carrots, and I'll hit it," drawled the black-haired chap.
"See that I don't hit you one," warned Phillips. Then he swung, with a grunt. The ball came like a shot from a cannon, but Red was well used to fast ones. Bat and ball connected, and the latter sailed high over Horace Pence's head into center field. Peewee retrieved it; and it was relayed home; for Midkiff had gone out by the second bag rather than sit with the crew from the other camp.
"You see," said Kingdon softly, "that's what a real good batsman would do to your fast balls when you got 'em over."
"Not to all of 'em," returned Pence, his black eyes flashing and the red deepening in his cheeks.
"Enough to make you tired," drawled Kingdon.
"You're mighty smart!" scoffed Kirby, as Pence made no reply. "Who told you so much, Curly?"
Phillips continued to connect with about two out of every three balls Pence pitched. And the dark chap grew hotter and hotter—inside. On the surface he was like ice. Kingdon admired him.
"Red," the backstop whispered while Peewee and Midkiff were relaying the ball on one occasion, "that lad will be a pitcher some day."
"He thinks he is now," returned the batter.