“Well, I hope he doesn’t, that’s all,” said Tom, and then he gave all his attention to watching the game.
“Ball one,” was the next decision of the umpire.
“Aw what’s the matter with you?” cried Sam, starting toward home where Bart stood holding the ball. “That clipped the plate as good as any one would want. You’d better get a pair of glasses, Kern. You can’t see straight.”
“I can see as well as you!” retorted Frank Kern, the umpire.
“It wasn’t anywhere near over the plate,” retorted Jack King, the batter.
“Aw, you don’t know a good ball when you get one,” snapped Sam. “I guess——”
“That’ll do now!” called Darrell sharply from first. “This isn’t a kid game. Play ball. Don’t be always kicking, Sam.”
“Who is always kicking?” demanded the pitcher, and it was evident to all that he was in unusually bad temper.
“I hope it isn’t on my account,” thought Joe who, from his position in deep centre, was waiting for anything that might come his way. He had been told to play far out, for King was known as a heavy hitter.
Sam received the ball from Bart with a scowl and wound up for the next delivery. Sam was a natural pitcher. That is, he had good control, as a rule, and he made his shoulder and back do most of the work of the pitching arm, as all professionals do. Still his unpleasant temper often made his efforts go to waste.