The umpire stooped down and dusted off the plate.
“Play ball!” he commanded.
CHAPTER VII
A BITTER STRUGGLE
Leete, the slugging left fielder of the Brooklyns, a veteran who for a dozen years back had averaged .300 and for two years had led the league, came swaggering to the plate, carrying three bats.
He threw two of them away and faced the pitcher.
“Why don’t you throw that other one away, too?” chaffed Joe. “It won’t do you any good.”
“It won’t, eh?” returned Leete. “Just put one over and see me murder it.”
“Oh, very well, since you insist on going through the motions,” retorted Joe, “murder this one.”
He sent the ball over like a bullet. Leete swung at it and missed.