The glasses were put on. Bill took a ball, and walked off a short distance while Cap donned his mask and mitt.
“Let her go!” he called to his brother, who was “winding up,” in his usual fashion. A square stone had been laid down as a plate.
There was an anxious moment among the little knot of spectators. Bill drew back his hand, worked his arm a couple of times, squinted through the glasses, and then with the speed of a miniature projectile, the ball left his grip and sped toward Cap.
“Biff!” That was the ball hitting the big mitt.
“Strike!” yelled Cap. “It was over the plate as clean as a whistle, but it had a curve to it that would fool Hans Wagner himself! Good work, old man!”
“Try another!” called Bill, trying to keep his voice cool.
Once more the ball went over the plate cleanly.
“Strike!” called Cap again.
“Are they all right?” asked Bill.
“Right as a trivet! Oh, Bill, you’re yourself again!”