Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball

by J. W. Duffield

“Certainly,” responded Dick, promptly, and handed his glove to Mr. Bennett. The latter donned it quickly, and punched it a few resounding blows to “put a hole in it.” “All right, my boy,” he said, when the glove was prepared to his satisfaction. “Shoot ’em over, and don’t be afraid to put some speed into ’em. You can’t send them too fast to suit me.”

Bert sent over a few easy ones at first, just to see how Mr. Bennett would handle them. The latter caught the offerings in a practised manner, and said, “Come on, young man, put some whiskers on the ball. That wasn’t the best you could do, was it?”

Bert made no answer to this, but on his next pitch his arm swung around like a flail, and the ball left his hand as though propelled by a catapult. The factory owner managed to catch the ball, but he wrung his hand. “Ouch!” he exclaimed, “that ball stung my hand pretty hard right through the glove.”

Young Bennett laughed in unholy glee, and danced about first on one foot and then on the other. “That’s one on you, dad,” he crowed; “but you ought to feel lucky that you even caught the ball. If Bert wanted to, he could pitch a ball that you couldn’t even touch. Give him a fadeaway, Bert.”

“Fadeaway, you say,” grunted his father. “There never was a pitcher yet that could pitch a ball that I couldn’t even touch. Give me a sample of this wonderful ball, Wilson.”

“All right, sir,” said Bert, and grinned. He wound up in the old familiar way that the boys knew so well, and shot over a ball that Mr. Bennett figured was a “cinch.” He held his glove in what he thought was the proper place, but at the last moment the ball dropped abruptly and swung under the glove, missing it by several inches.

“Well, I’ll be hanged,” muttered Mr. Bennett, gazing stupidly at his glove. He soon recovered himself, however, and handed the glove back to Dick. “You’ve certainly got a wonderful ball there, Wilson,” he said. “You fooled me very neatly, and I have no excuse to offer.” Which showed the fellows that Mr. Bennett was a “good sport.”

Pretty soon Bert announced himself as ready for the speed test, and Mr. Bennett led the way over to what looked like an empty hoop, but which, upon closer inspection, was seen to be crossed and recrossed by a web of fine, hairlike wires.

“These wires are so connected,” explained Mr. Bennett, “that no matter where the ball goes, provided, of course, that it goes somewhere inside the hoop, it will break a wire, and the exact second will be recorded. Then, there is another hoop fifty feet away,” pointing to a similar contrivance nearer the other end of the testing room, “and all you have to do, Wilson, is to pitch the ball through both hoops. That back hoop is a good deal bigger than any catcher’s glove, so you oughtn’t to have any difficulty doing it. Do you think you can manage that all right?”

“Why, I guess I can do that,” replied Bert, and took up his position about eight or ten feet this side of the front hoop. Dick tossed him the ball, and Bert fitted it carefully in his hand. Then he drew his arm back as far as possible, and a second later the ball shot from his fingers at a terrific pace. It struck almost the exact center of the first hoop, parting the fragile wires as though they had been so many cobwebs, and shot through the second hoop about a foot from its edge.