Tug signalled for an in-shoot. He wound himself up and let fly. Butcher Stevens flung himself from the plate, Moffat threw up his mitt in sudden fear. The ball caromed off and went frolicking past the back-stop.
"Strike one!"
Tug, puzzled and apprehensive, came up for a consultation.
"Gee! Snorky, give me warning! What do you think I am—a Statue of Liberty?"
"Charley wants me to let myself out. I'll slow down on the third strike," he said loftily. "Let the others go if you want."
Tug, like a Roman gladiator, with undying resolve, squatted back of the plate and signalled for an out. No use; no mit of his could ever stop the frightful velocity of that shoot.
"Stri-ike two!"
"Now ease up a bit," cautioned De Soto.
He sent a floating out-drop that seemed headed for Butcher Stevens's head, and finally settled gently over the plate at the waist-line.
"Striker out!"