“The fielders of my punk team didn’t get much exercise that time, did they?” asked Joe tantalizingly.
“I hadn’t got set yet,” grunted Curry, as he took a firm toehold for the next ball.
Thinking that Joe would rely on a change of pace, Curry looked this time for a floater or a curve. But again the ball shot over, splitting the plate for a perfect strike. Again the big left fielder swung and missed.
“Did you see that, John?” asked Robbie, bringing his hand down with a resounding slap on McRae’s knee. “That arm of his isn’t an arm at all. It’s a cannon!”
“It sure is,” agreed McRae. “His speed is blinding. But for the love of Pete, Robbie, remember that knee of mine is flesh and blood and keep that big ham of yours off it.”
“I’m going to let you hit this one, Curry,” Joe promised, “but it won’t do you any good.”
He put one over that forced Curry to hit it into the dust. It came on a bound to Joe, who threw to first in plenty of time for an out.
“’Twas just playing with him he was, like a cat with a mouse,” gloated Robbie, as Curry came back discomfited to the bench. “What that boy can do to a batter is a shame.”
Burkett, the burly first baseman, took a ball and a strike and then knocked a grasser to short. It had all the earmarks of an easy out and ordinarily would have been just that. But as luck would have it, the ball struck a stone and took a sudden bound over the shortstop’s head. It rolled out into center and before it could be retrieved Burkett was roosting on second.