“Who’s up?” demanded Paul Bird, as he tossed his mask and chest protector aside, wiped his steaming face, and picked up a bat.
“You are, and if ever you made a base hit get one in now!” said Captain Seymour.
“Yes, everything depends on this inning. We can do it if we try, fellows!” exclaimed Ben Allison, also selecting his favorite piece of ash.
Once again the crowd settled down, though the anxiety felt was plainly depicted on the faces all around.
The noise had broken out again worse than ever. Even the voice of the brazen-throated Princeton man could not be heard, and he depended on signals to announce whether it might be a ball or a strike. Not one of those boys but whose nerves thrilled with the intense strain. And it can easily be understood how Coddling must have suffered as he toed the slab once more to try and mow the Columbia boys down, so as to prevent a run.
“You know how to do it, Coddling. Give them some of your famous teasers, and see ’em break their backs trying to connect!”
“Yes, Coddling, one, two, three for yours, now. And start right in with this guy of a catcher!”
“What have you got on him, hey? Did he let a ball pass him like your feller? He ain’t so hefty, but he’s the stuff they make champions out of!” declared a Columbia backer, a brawny blacksmith, whose appearance alone was enough to inspire respect, so that the Bellport man dared make no answer.
Paul waited. He did not want to appear too anxious. He knew that the man who was hurling that ball over was just as nervous as they make them, and he hoped to profit by this. Still, he could not hold off when he felt sure he saw a ball coming within his reach.
Too late after he struck he learned that it was one of Coddling’s shrewd outshoots, and that it had jumped beyond his reach.