Just as Dave had stepped away from the plate, Hutchins, the little first baseman of the Navy, had bounded forward.
Hutchins was wholly cool, and had keen eye for batting. He hoped, despite what he had heard of Prescott's cleverness, to send Navy spirits booming by at least a two-bagger.
"Strike one!"
Prescott had not wasted any moments, this time, and Hutchins was caught unawares. The little first baseman flushed and a steely look came into his eyes.
At the next one he struck, but it came across the plate as an out-shoot that was just too far out for Hutchins's reach. Had he not offered it would have been a "called ball."
With two strikes called against him, and nothing moving, Hutchins felt the ooze coming out of his neck and forehead. The Navy had been playing grand ball that spring. It would never do to let the Army get too easy a start.
But Dick poised, twirled and let go. It was a straight-away, honest and fair ball that he sent. To be sure there was a trace of in-shoot about it that made Hutchins misjudge it so that, in the next instant, the passionless umpire sounded the monotonous solo:
"Strike three—-and out. Side out!"
From the Navy seats dead calm, but from the band came a blare of brass and a clash of drums and cymbals as the cheering started.
In an instant, out of all the hubbub, came the long corps yell from the cadets, ending with: