The conferences between the respective captains had ended, and Burke, head of the Tuckerton Varsity nine, signalled to his men to come in from practice, as they were to bat first. Graydon assembled his team for a few final instructions.
“Sorry you’re not playing with us to-day,” he said to poor Bill, who was sitting on the bench. The cut in his head had stopped bleeding.
“You’re no more sorry than I am,” declared the pitcher ruefully. “But it can’t be helped.”
“We may have to call on you yet,” said the coach, “if they knock Mersfeld and Newton out of the box.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do much good,” was Bill’s doleful answer.
“Play ball!” howled the umpire, and the players took their places, Mersfeld catching the new white horsehide sphere the official tossed to him.
The first ball which Mersfeld delivered was cleanly hit away out in centrefield, and when it came back the batter was on second base. There was a wild riot of cheers at this auspicious opening for Tuckerton, and a grim look on the faces of the Westfield players.
“That looks bad,” murmured Bill, as he watched Mersfeld wind up for his next delivery. The pitcher was visibly nervous, and Cap, seeing it, made an excuse to walk out to him.
“Keep cool!” he whispered, “or you won’t last.”
Mersfeld stiffened, and struck out the next man. But the third one got a three bagger out of him, and the following one a single. When the inning came to a close there were three runs chalked up for the rivals of our friends, and there was only gloom for the home team. Nor was it dissipated by the triumphant songs their opponents sang.