“Playing the baby act!” taunted Joe. “The Regulars afraid of the Yannigans!”
“What are you kicking at?” retorted Markwith, as the ball was returned to him. “You’re going to get a base without working for it, aren’t you? What more do you want? Some fellows are never satisfied.”
Another ball came up that was over Joe’s head and that Mylert had to jump to reach.
“A dead game sport,” jeered Joe. “Say, Markwith, you wouldn’t bet that you’re alive.”
Whether Markwith was nettled by the laugh that rose from the bench or whether he really lost control, no one knew. But the next ball came barely within reach and Joe caught it full on the seam near the end of his bat.
There was a mighty crash, and the ball sailed out between right and center almost on a line but rising slightly as it went. On and on it sped as if with wings. Still on and on! Would it never stop?
Bowen and Ralston had started at the crack of the bat with their backs to the diamond, legging it toward the fence, while the Yannigans had leaped to their feet and were yelling like mad.
On the ball went and on until at last it cleared the fence and disappeared from view.
Joe had rounded first like a deer, but as he noted the course of the ball he slackened speed and just jogged around the bases, following his comrade over the plate with the run that won the game for the Yannigans.