He put his hand to his hip-pocket and drew out a pocket flask, which Eschenbach, however, waved away.
"That's expressly something which a ballplayer must never got to touch during a game," Eschenbach cried as he dusted off his trousers with his handkerchief and once more seized the bat. "Now, then, Mr. Pitcher," he cried, "send me a real slow one straight over the plate."
Birsky and Zapp returned to the edge of the lot, scowling savagely at Kanef, who was once more engaged in wiping his hands in the dust. This time, however, he executed no preliminary dance steps, and Eschenbach swung his bat to such good purpose that the ball went sailing between the first and second bases at the height of a short man's shoulder—or, to be exact, at the height of Jacob Golnik's right shoulder, from which it rebounded into the left eye of Joseph Bogin, the shop foreman.
Amid the scene of confusion that ensued only Jonas Eschenbach remained calm.
"As clean a hit as ever I see!" he cried proudly, and strolled off toward the excited mob that surrounded Golnik and Bogin, both of whom were shrieking with fright and pain.
"D'ye think they're hurted bad, Mr. Eschenbach?" Zapp inquired anxiously.
"Schmooes—hurt bad!" Eschenbach retorted. "Why should a little thing like that hurt 'em bad?"
He was still intoxicated with the triumph of making what would have been a home run in a regular game, and his face bore a pleased smile as he turned to Birsky.
"I says to myself when I seen that ball coming," he continued, "I would put that right between first and second bases, about where that short and that big feller is standing—and that's exactly what happened."
Birsky stared at his prospective customer in shocked surprise.