“Jones got in Rufe’s way, though, and the ball went into the outfield——”
“In order to throw to third, Mr. Proudfoot,” declared Jonesie authoritatively, “you’ve got to know more than the ball.”
“Oh, give them the run,” said Steve. “We’ll lick ’em to a standstill. Come on, fellows.”
They went, lingeringly, filled to the brim with remarks they wanted to offer, but didn’t. After all, as Steve Cook said, it was only a farce, a parody. Only—and Billy Carpenter picked up a pebble and hurled it away with unnecessary violence—Jonesie did make a fellow so mad!
Jonesie struck out miserably, and Hoyt, rolling a slow one to Proudfoot, followed him to the bench. Then the School Team came in and the All-Stars distributed themselves about the field, many in really original locations. For instance, Nash, playing in left, took up a position some twenty yards behind third base and Wigman seemed unable to tear himself away from close proximity to the second bag. Tubby Bumstead, who had once pitched two games for a grammar school team, strode to the box with all the nonchalance of a Mathewson, picked up the ball and promptly threw it over Jonesie’s head.
“That’s the stuff, Tubby!” cried Jonesie, trotting after the sphere. “That’s pitching, old top! You got it with you to-day! Now, then, first man, Tubby! Don’t forget the lesson! Bingham likes ’em high. Give him one, Tubby.”
Tubby’s attempt was not successful, and Gus droned, “One ball!”
“That’s the way, Tubby! Now another one a little bit higher. Bingham doesn’t like to reach for ’em, do you, Bing?”
“Don’t you be so fresh!” growled Bingham, who was a senior and properly mindful of the respect due him from lower-class fellows.
“A thousand pardons, Bing! Here it comes now! Bang it, Bing! Bing it, Bang! Bang——”