“I know it was. Here’s a better one.”
“Good! That’s the stuff. It was a strike all right—right over the middle. Keep it up.”
For a time Joe kept this up, pitching at moderate speed, and then the temptation to “cut loose” could not be resisted. He “wound up” as he had seen professional pitchers do and let the ball go. With considerable force it went right through Tom’s hands and crashed up against the fence with a resounding bang. It was the first ball Tom had let get past him.
“That was a hot one all right!” the catcher called, “but it was away out.”
“All right, I’ll slow down again,” said Joe. He was a little disappointed that he could not combine speed and accuracy.
The boys were about to resume their practice when a face, fringed with a shock of white hair on top, and a little ring of whiskers encircling it below, was raised over the edge of the fence, and a mild voice demanded:
“What you boys up to now—tryin’ to knock down my fence?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Peterkin,” called Tom. “We’re just playing baseball—that’s all.”
“Where’s the rest of ye?” the old man wanted to know.