“You’re up, Brewster,” called Hovey.
“Two gone! Last man, fellows!” shouted the Robinson catcher, as Ned tapped the plate.
“Last man!” echoed the second-baseman. “He’s easy!”
“Make him pitch ’em, Brewster!” called Milford. The rest was drowned in the sudden surge of cheers from the Robinson side. Ned faced the pitcher with an uncomfortable empty feeling inside of him. He meant to hit that ball, but he greatly feared he wouldn’t; he scarcely dared think what a hit meant. For a moment he wished himself well out of it—wished that he was back on the bench and that another had his place and his chance to win or lose the game. Then the first delivery sped toward him, and much of his nervousness vanished.
“Ball!” droned the umpire.
Milford and Levett were coaching again; it was hard to say whose voice was the loudest. Down at first Housel was dancing back and forth on his toes, and back of him Milford, kneeling on the turf, was roaring: “Two gone, Jack, remember! Run on anything! Look out for a passed ball! Now you’re off! Hi, hi, hi! Look out! He won’t throw! Take a lead—go on! Watch his arm; go down with his arm! Now you’re off! Now, now, now!”
But if this was meant to rattle the pitcher it failed of its effect. Dithman swung his arm out, danced forward on his left foot, and shot the ball away.
“Strike!” said the umpire.
Ned wondered why he had let that ball go by; he had been sure that it was going to cut the plate, and yet he had stood by undecided until it was too late. Well! He gripped his bat a little tighter, shifted his feet a few inches, and waited again. Dithman’s expression of calm unconcern aroused his ire; just let him get one whack at that ball and he would show that long-legged pitcher something to surprise him! A palpable in-shoot followed, and Ned staggered out of its way. Then came what was so undoubtedly a ball that Ned merely smiled at it. Unfortunately at the last instant it dropped down below his shoulder, and he waited anxiously for the verdict.