“Well, a hit now won’t mean a thing!” grieved Chick.
“It’ll mean two runs; just what it meant before,” answered Roy. “Who’s this at bat?”
“Kneeland,” answered his neighbor on the other side, referring to his score-card.
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing. Got his base twice, once on fielder’s choice and once on balls.”
“That’s good. Watch Pritchett fool him.”
They watched, breathlessly, in an agony of suspense. One ball; one strike; two strikes; two balls; a foul; another foul.
“He’s spoiling ’em,” muttered Chick uneasily. But the next moment he was on his feet with every one else on that side of the field, yelling wildly, frantically. Pritchett had one more strike-out to his credit, and three blue-stockinged players turned ruefully from their captured bases and sought their places in the field.
The Crimson players came flocking back to the bench, panting and smiling, and threw themselves under the grateful shade of the little strip of awning.
“Easy with the water,” cautioned the trainer as the tin cup clattered against the mouth of the big water-bottle.