“But I’m going to bring in a run,” he told himself grimly, as he rubbed some dirt on his hands, and took a firm grip of the stick.
The ball came whizzing toward him. He was half minded to swing at it, but a signal he had caught passing between the pitcher and catcher warned him, and he let it pass.
“Strike!” called the umpire. Cap opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it.
“You won’t fool me again,” he called to the man in the box, with a grim smile.
“Whack!” That was Cap’s stick meeting the horsehide. Out sailed the sphere, a long, low straight drive into right field—away out among the daisies.
“Oh, wow!”
“Oh, pretty!”
“Oh, a sweet one!”
“Run, you old war-horse! Run, you scob! Run!”
“A homer! A homer!”