“Have we a bat boy?” asked the editor captain, glancing toward the newsboys on the sidelines.
But Joan was ahead of any of them. “Let me!” she begged.
She had played baseball at school and in the neighborhood, besides having attended several of the big games. She knew that the duty of the bat boy was merely to pick up the bat flung to the ground by the player and to get it out of the way. The first time she had ever been a bat boy was when she was only eight years old. She had been hit in the nose by a baseball that time.
“All right,” nodded the editor, and Joan took her place on the field, to the right of the home plate, to be ready.
The two teams, first the Star and then the Journal, had a bit of batting practice (to sharpen up their batting eye, Chub said) as well as fielding practice. A well-liked deputy sheriff was to act as umpire. Chub spoke of him as “Umps.”
Soon the game was called. The Journal team was in the field, and the first Star batter was ready to step up to the plate.
“Play ball!” shouted the umpire.
Joan shivered with excitement and was glad again that Tim had made the team. She glanced at him over there between second and third base, ready to live up to the name of his position, and “shortstop” the ball whenever possible. The Star made one score during the first inning.
“The Star team knows its baseball,” Chub admitted, grumpily, as the Journal team trooped in from the field.
Lefty was the first batter up. “Wait for a good one,” the crowd advised him, after two balls had been called. He was a good waiter and got a walk. Mack, the second batter, was nailed before he could reach second. A groan escaped the Journal rooters as the inning ended and their side had not scored.