“That’s the way to do it! Make him fan, Bill!” cried Whistle-Breeches.
“He’s done,” called Bob Chapin.
“Make him give you a nice one,” was the advice the batter got from his friends.
The man with the stick tapped the plate and smiled confidently. He was still smiling when the next ball came. He struck at it—missed it clean, and threw his bat to the ground with such force as to splinter it.
“Batter’s out!” said the umpire quietly.
“That’s the way to do it!”
“There’s more where those came from!”
“We’ve got their Angora!”
These were the cries that greeted Bill’s initial effort in the box at that championship game. Matters were looking brighter for Westfield, and every man on the team, and every supporter who wanted to see the pennant stay where it was, felt hope coming back to him.
There was a little apprehension in Tuckerton’s ranks. The game had seemed so sure to them, but now the tide was turning. Still Bill might not be able to keep it up.