Shaddock was a good hitter as rule. He had made something of a record on the team the preceding year. The best he could do now, after knocking three fouls, was to send one into the hands of the shortstop, who failed, however, to double Ralph at second on account of a fumble.
Intense interest was taken in the coming to bat of Jack Comfort.
“Lace one out, old boy!” howled the Columbia bunch in the center of the bleachers, where they had gathered to fairly split the atmosphere with their shouts.
“You can do it if you try! Over Lacy’s head, Jack!”
Jack thereupon did try. Three times he swung on the ball, and as often it came with a dull, sickening thud in the catcher’s big mitt, while the grin on the face of Smith, Sr., the tall first baseman, was most exasperating.
A roar went up as Jack walked back to the bench shaking his head. Those elusive “spit” balls of Coddling had him guessing, and silently he stared at the slim pitcher who had proved his right to the name of wizard, as if trying to fathom where his own efforts fell short.
Now came Lanky Wallace. He was warmly greeted by friend and foe alike, for somehow everybody knew the elongated Columbia first baseman always did his level best, and played a clean, square game.
Lanky was more fortunate than Jack, for he hit the second ball Coddling floated up, hit it with a vim that sent the sphere whistling out toward left, much to the surprise of the pitcher, and the delight of the crowd.
As a man the entire mass swung to their feet to follow the course of the ball. Smith, Jr., so called to distinguish him from his brother, was covering ground at a great rate, in the hope of getting his hands upon the flying horsehide ere it went past.
“He’s got it!” whooped the Bellport enthusiasts, as the left fielder made a fine leap in the air, and apparently snatched the ball down.