After all this boasting it must have been a bit humiliating to the Bellport boosters to see their idol strike out; but that was what the mighty Banghardt did. Three separate times did he send that wagon-tongue bat of his whistling through the air, each occasion being marked with a distinct grunt as it met only vacant space, for the ball was not where he believed it to be.
“Better luck next time, Tony! Taking his measure are you?” yelled a Columbia boy, derisively, as the fielder threw his bat savagely away, and started out to attend to his territory, for the inning was over.
Coddling took a brace after that first unfortunate affair, and the next three visitors who faced him were mowed down in regular order. His curves were most exasperating, his speed terrific, and he could mix a few fadeaway balls with the others in a fashion that kept the batter guessing all the time.
So once more Frank went into the box to face the hard-hitting Bellport men.
“Promises to be a warm game,” remarked a man who happened to be sitting beside Lef Seller on the bleachers.
“Oh! I don’t know,” replied the disgruntled Columbia student, a pitcher of no mean merit himself, and who, but for his own misconduct, might have been serving on the team as a substitute. “That Coddling is a marvel sure, and they say he gets better right along, finishing strong. It’s different, with Frank. You see he starts well, but any little thing is apt to rattle him badly, so that he goes to pieces.”
This was not so, as Lef well knew, but he could never resist the temptation to give the boy he hated a sly and underhand dig.
The gentleman looked at his hat-band curiously.
“You’re from Columbia, too, I believe, judging from the purple and gold ribbon you wear?” he remarked, with a slight sneer.
“Oh! yes, I used to pitch for them last year, but the faculty jumped on me for some foolish little thing I did, and refused to let me take part this season. Frank does his best, we all know, but he isn’t just as steady as he might be,” continued Lef, brazenly.