“You’ll never get hung for murder,” grinned Joe. “I knew you weren’t as bad as you painted yourself.”
“Close your trap and play ball!” snapped Leete.
The next, judging from the wind-up, was to be another fast one, but it drifted slowly up to the plate and Leete nearly broke his back trying for it.
“Strike two!” called the umpire.
“Perhaps you’d better try another bat,” suggested Joe, with simulated concern. “That one seems to have holes in it.”
Leete growled something inarticulate and got a firmer toehold.
Joe wound the next one around his neck, but Leete refused to bite and it went as a ball.
The next whizzed across the plate, rising with a sharp hop just as it reached the rubber, and Leete swung six inches beneath it.
“You’re out!” cried the umpire, and Leete went back disconsolately to the bench while a cheer arose at the first strike-out of the season.