“Where’ll you have it, Milt?” he asked.
“Anywhere I can reach it,” answered Wales angrily.
“Give him a good one,” called Dolph.
Sam nodded carelessly and shot a high ball that sent the batter staggering back from the plate.
“Don’t hit him!” begged Dolph.
The next one looked pretty good and Wales swung at it. There was a crack as bat and ball met and in an instant he was racing to first and Wicks and Coolidge were streaking for the plate. But the ball, a hard and low fly, came to earth in Finkler’s meadow, a foul by many yards.
“Foul! Strike!” called Mr. Shay, tossing a new ball to Sam. Sam waited while Wales walked back to the plate.
“Try again, Milt,” he said as the Towner went past him. Wales scowled. The tumult had subsided, for both sides were far too excited to shout. Wales picked up his bat again and stepped into the box. Dolph gave his signal. Sam wound himself up and pitched a wide one that was nowhere near the plate. But Wales, angry and nervous, stepped out and almost struck at it. Sam smiled as he leaned down to rub his hand in the dirt. He had learned what he wanted to know. Wales was “up in the air.” Sam had no doubt now of the outcome. He refused Dolph’s next signal, put his fingers to the brim of his cap, got his reply from Dolph, a cheerful “Now then, Sammy!” and hurled the ball. Straight as an arrow it shot, right across the plate, waist-high, as beautiful a strike as ever was pitched. And Wales knew that it was good and slugged at it, and missed it clean! What a yell of triumph went up from the Boarders!
“He’s easy, Sammy!” shouted Dolph as he returned the ball. “Give him another one like that!”
Sam nodded nonchalantly, cast his gaze about the bases, smiled at the anxious faces of Prince and Furst and then turned and spoke to Mr. Shay.