The next one had a fast hop on it, and Burton swung six inches beneath it.
“Strike two!”
Burton set himself for the next one, and succeeded only in fouling it off. Mylert got the ball and returned it to Joe on the bound. The latter caught it carelessly and then, without his usual wind-up, sent it whistling across the plate. It caught Burton entirely off his guard, and his futile stab at it caused even the Chicago fans to break into laughter.
“Out!” cried the umpire, and the discomfited Burton retired sheepishly to the bench.
“That’s showing them up, Joe,” called up Larry Barrett from second.
“Why didn’t you soak that first ball?” demanded Evans, the Chicago manager. “It was a beauty, right in the groove.”
“Aw,” growled Burton, “how can I hit a ball that I can’t see? That came like a shot from a rifle. I ain’t no miracle man.”
Gallagher came next and had no better luck. One strike was called on him, and the other two he missed.
“Look at that boy, John,” exulted Robbie, his red face beaming. “He’s got them fellows buffaloed right from the jump. He’s making them eat out of his hand. He’s skinning ’em alive.”
“Fine work,” agreed McRae, his anxious features relaxing somewhat. “’Twas the best day’s work I ever did when I got him on the team. He’s a whole nine by himself. And—blistering billikens! Look at that!”