Joe looked him over for a moment. Then he wound up and whipped one over the plate. It was a high fast one, and Neale swung at it, his bat missing the ball by fully three inches.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and the crowd roared in approval. It was an auspicious beginning.
The next one was wide, and Neale refused to “bite.” Again Joe tempted him with a bad one, and again Neale was too wary. The next ball was a swift incurve that broke so suddenly that it buffaloed Neale completely. The lunge he made at it swung him round so that he almost lost his balance, and he looked rather sheepish as Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giants, grinned at him.
“Had that in my mitt before you swung at it,” taunted Mylert. “Gee, but you’re slow.”
Neale glared at him, but made no reply and tightened his grip on the bat.
This time Joe floated up a slow teaser that looked as big as a balloon as it sailed lazily for the plate. Neale, who was all set for a fast one, nearly broke his back reaching for it.
“You’re out,” declared the umpire, while shouts and laughter came from the crowded stands, as Neale, flinging down his bat disgustedly, went back to the dugout.
Kopf, the next man up, dribbled a slow one to the box that Joe had no trouble in getting to first on time. Mitchell lifted a towering fly that Iredell gobbled up without moving in his tracks.
“Classy work, old man!” cried out Robbie, his face glowing with satisfaction, as Joe drew off his glove and came in to the bench. “The old wing seems to be working as well as ever.”