“Didn’t either,” laughed Tom.
“That made him mad. So he spit on his hands, got a good grip on the bat, and tried the next one. That was an in-shoot, and Tom didn’t know it. It took him plumb in the ribs. We all laughed at that, and Tom got madder than ever. ‘Put it where I can hit it!’ he yelled to Colton. ‘I dare you to!’ So Colton did it, but he sent it so fast that Tom didn’t see it until it was by him.”
“It was over my head,” protested Tom, indignantly.
“Then Colton just let himself loose, and the rest of us, standing around waiting for our turns, just laughed ourselves sick! Once Tom lost hold of his bat, and it went about fifty feet into the field, just missing Colton by a foot. Another time Tom reached out so far that he fell on his face. Then another in-shoot took him in the arm, and that was enough. Tom threw down the bat and walked off.
“‘Here, where are you going?’ asked Payson.
“‘Home,’ said Tom. ‘What’s the good of standing up there and letting him slug me with the ball? I’ve got a smashed rib and a busted shoulder, and that’s all I want. I’m no hog!’”
“It makes a good story, the way he tells it,” said Tom, when the laughter had ceased. “It’s a fact, though, that he did give me two awful whacks with that fool ball. Pshaw, I couldn’t hit it in a thousand years! I knew that, so I got out. Afterwards I tried to get Colton to stand up at the net and let me throw a few balls at him, but he wouldn’t do it. I told him he could have all the bats he wanted, too, but that didn’t seem to satisfy him.”
“I’ll bet you couldn’t have hit him,” jeered Alf.
“Couldn’t I? If he’d let me try he’d have gone to the hospital!”