“Now we ought to walk away from them,” called Darrell to his players. Joe came up to bat and to his delight he got a single. He was advanced to second when the next player connected with the ball, and then followed some see-sawing on the part of the pitcher and the second baseman, in an endeavor to catch Joe napping.
Once our hero thought he saw a good chance to steal third and he was about to take it when something warned him to come back. He did, and only just in time, for the pitcher threw to second. It was a close shave.
Joe slid head foremost and as his fingers touched the bag the second baseman leaped up in the air to catch the ball which the pitcher had wildly thrown high.
When the baseman came down, making a wild effort to touch Joe, the iron cleat of one shoe caught the little finger of Joe’s left hand and cut it cruelly.
The plucky centre fielder tried to stifle the groan of anguish that rose to his lips, but it was impossible. The baseman was aware of the accident.
Dropping the ball he knelt over Joe.
“I’m mighty sorry, old man!” he exclaimed. “Are you hurt much?”
“No—no. I—I guess not,” murmured Joe, and then all got black before his eyes, and there was a curious roaring in his ears.