“Sure. But we’ll try once more. Come over here.”
The game was going rather slow now, for the Tuckerton pitcher was tiring, and was not sure of his man. He had decided to walk him, and to kill time was playing with Whistle-Breeches, who was on second. Consequently little attention needed to be given to the contest for the moment by the captain. He could see what Cap and Bill were going to do.
Once more Bill threw in the balls. They came just as they had formerly done, perfectly.
“You’ll do!” cried Cap in delight.
“Get ready to go to the box!” ordered the captain tensely.
“But I—I don’t understand,” stammered the pitcher.
“You’ve got your sight back!” went on his brother, “and I believe what did it was the fall you just had. It did something to your head—relieved the blood or nerve pressure or something. Anyhow you can pitch once more!”
“That’s the stuff!” cried Graydon. “We need you!”
There was a wild yell from the grandstands, and out burst a chorus of a Westfield song.
“Whistle-Breeches brought in a run,” cried Graydon. “Things are picking up! Now we’ll wallop ’em!”