“It seems so.”
“Humph!” was all Langridge said as he walked away.
Two or three good batters on each side began knocking flies for the others to catch and Tom and his chums soon found themselves warming up in earnest. The country lad discovered that he could judge the balls quite accurately and he made some good throws from a long distance.
“Play ball!” suddenly called Bricktop Molloy. “Come on, fellows! Out in the field. Parsons, let’s see what sort of a twirler you are.”
Tom went to the box. He was a trifle nervous, but he controlled himself as well as he could. The first man up was Langridge, and there was an unpleasant look on the face of the rich youth as he faced his rival.
Tom sent in an out curve and he was pretty sure it was going over the plate. But he heard the umpire cry: “One ball!” and he was much surprised. There was a mocking smile on the face of Langridge. Tom held the next ball rather longer. He threw in a peculiar little drop. Langridge saw it coming and struck savagely at it, but a resounding “thump” told Tom that the horsehide had landed safe in Molloy’s mitt.
“One strike!” yelled the umpire, and Tom’s heart was glad.
“That’s the way to do it!” cried Phil Clinton, from center field. “Strike him out!”
Langridge hit the next ball, though it was only a weak liner, which Tom stopped and threw over to first, but there was no need, for Langridge had seen the uselessness of running.
“One out. Go on with the game,” sang out Bricktop.