Dink ran out on his tiptoes, encased himself in his mitt and turned, tense and alert. He had gone through his first ordeal triumphantly. No chances had come to him in the field, but at bat he had accidently succeeded in being hit, and though he had struck out the next time he had hit a foul and knew the jubilant feeling that came with the crack of the bat.
"Give me a week and I'll soak 'em out," he said, moving restlessly, and he added to himself: "Strike 'em out, Cheyenne, old man! They're easy."
But the Cleves suddenly woke up and began to fight. One man beat out a grounder, and one struck out; another error of the temperamental White Mountain Canary put a man on third and one on second. Then Cheyenne, pulling himself together, made his second strike-out.
"Two out, play for the batter," came Cheyenne Baxter's warning hallo.
"Two out," said Dink to his fellow-fielders. "One more and we spink 'em. Come on, now!"
Both sides settled for the final play, the man on second leading well up toward third.
"Steady!" said Cheyenne.
Stover drew in his breath and rose to his toes, as he had done thirty times already.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and the ball meeting the bat, floated fair and free, out toward centerfield.
Dink did not have to move a step; in fact, the ball rose and fell straight for the massive mitt as though it had chosen his glove from all the other gloves in the field. It came slowly, endlessly, the easiest, gentlest, most perfect fly imaginable, directly for the large brown mitt that looked like a chest protector.