Donohue delivered his first one wide of the plate. O’Leary laughed, and nodded his head, as though to tell the pitcher he was too old a bird to be caught with such chaff.
“Make him put it over, Dan!”
“Knock the stuffing out of the ball, O’Leary!”
“One of your old-time homers is what we need, remember!”
“You’ve got his number, Dan; don’t bite at a wide one!”
“You’ll walk, all right; he’s afraid of you, old scout!”
All these and many other cries could be heard, but the players were paying no attention to the crowd now. Every fielder was “on his toes,” so to speak, anticipating that it might be up to him to save the day. In the main, the crowd was so anxious over the outcome of the next ball from the pitcher that they almost forgot to breathe, only watching the pitcher wind up preparatory to making his throw.
Jack saw Fred give one of his quick looks toward the spot where pretty Molly Skinner sat. He hoped it meant that he had resolved to be staunch and true to his team-mates, and loyal to his native town, despite any terrible temptation that may have come to him in the shape of a big bribe.
O’Leary had a peculiar crouch at the plate. His odd attitude made Jack think of a squatty spider about to launch itself at a blue-bottled fly that had ventured too near his corner. No doubt it accounted in some measure for his swatting ability, as he would necessarily put the whole force of his body in his blow. Often when he missed connections he would whirl all the way around; and then recovering make a humorous gesture toward his admirers in the crowd, for O’Leary, being Irish, was almost always in good humor, no matter what happened.
He let the first ball speed past for a strike, and higher rose the excitement. The umpire called the second one a ball, which evened matters a little. Next came “strike two,” and yet the great O’Leary waited, while his admirers began to feel fainthearted, fearing that he would stand there and be counted down when everything depended on his making a hit.