The third ball was high.
“Ball one,” declared Sim.
Then came an out-curve. But it was too far out. Jared was a rather ragged pitcher.
“Ball two,” called Sim.
Suddenly Jared threw to third base. But, quick as he was, he didn’t catch Rob off.
“How’s that?” yelled Higgins, the Hampton third baseman, as he touched Rob.
The umpire merely waved his hand in what he deemed a professional manner.
“A thousand years late,” chuckled Rob to Higgins.
Jared heard him and flashed him an ugly look. Hatred gleamed in his eyes. Rob watched him narrowly and again stole off third.
Bang!—came a swift straight ball at the dreamy Ernest. But he was not in “a trance,” as Jared had scornfully thought. Crack!—went a hot grounder to short stop. Merritt stood fast at second, but Rob, like an arrow from a bow, shot off for home. The short stop fired in the sphere to the catcher as quickly as he could. But before the ball got there, Rob, his legs working like pistons, had passed the home plate.