“That’s queer. I had an idea Frank was about as cool a player as I had ever seen in my old days at Princeton. If that’s the reputation he has then I’ve made the poorest play of my life, and I used to be considered a judge. Buster gave me to understand differently.”
“Then you know Buster Billings?” asked Lef, quickly and uneasily.
“Why, I’m stopping at his house just now,” came the reply.
“Oh! then I can understand how it comes you think so highly of Frank, because he has a few chums always ready to sneeze when he takes snuff. There are some others in Columbia, and I own that I’m one of the gang, who believe Frank Allen to be a greatly overrated athlete. There! did you see him pass that man. He never pitched near the plate. I told you he could be easily rattled!”
“Wait, my boy. Many a pitcher, as you know, does that, when he feels it in his bones that the batter is able to hit the ball. Besides, perhaps he knows that the next man is an easy mark for him,” remarked the gentleman, who seemed to be quite at home with regard to the fine points of the game.
“That Smith, Jr., is the left fielder, and I have seen him send the ball out of sight. But his brother is no pie either, and if Frank thinks he’s going to mow him down he has another guess coming,” muttered Lef, eagerly watching, and ready to howl should the batter connect.
“One strike!” announced the umpire, though the man had not swung at all.
With the next ball he did strike viciously, but the merry plunk as the horsehide sphere settled comfortably in the big mitt of Paul Bird told that he had failed to properly gauge the line of its rifleball flight.
After that came a foul and two balls. Frank believed he had his measure taken, and it was with the utmost confidence that he sent in one of his tantalizing out-curves.
“You’re out!” shouted the umpire.