Captain Woodhouse himself was next to try, and there was a grim look on his face as he went into the box. It was justified, for he made a safe hit and went to second on a swift grounder that Dutch Housenlager knocked, the ball rolling between the shortstop’s fingers. The Randalls would have scored if Bricktop Molloy had hit harder or higher, but the shortstop made as pretty a catch as was seen on the grounds that day, leaping high for the ball, and with Bricktop out it was all over, and a goose egg went up on the scoreboard as the result of the first half of the initial inning.
“Now, Langridge, don’t let them get any hits off you,” implored Kindlings as he and his men went to the field.
“Of course not,” promised the pitcher easily.
His first ball was wild and there was an anxious feeling in the hearts of his chums. But he steadied almost at once and his next two deliveries were called strikes.
“Here’s where you fan!” he called to Pinky Davenport, who was up.
“Do I? Watch me,” replied Pinky, but he only hit the wind.
“That’s the way to do it!” called a shrill voice from the grandstand. “Fine, Langridge!”
“All right, don’t tell us what your uncle said,” retorted the pitcher. “Keep that back, Fenton,” for it was the boy with the ever-present relative who had yelled, and there was laughter at the pitcher’s jibe.
Langridge had never done better work than in that first inning when, after passing the hardest hitter of the Boxers to first purposely, in order to make sure of one of their weakest stick-wielders, the Randall twirler struck him neatly out, and the rivals of Randall were rewarded with a neat little white circle.