“Strike two!”
The batter stooped and rubbed his hands in the dust, and then gripped the stick resolutely. The ball went back to Warner, and he stepped once more into the box. For a moment he studied the batsman deliberately, a proceeding which seemed to worry that youth, since he lifted first one foot and then the other off the ground and waved his bat impatiently.
“Play ball!” shrieked the grand stand.
Warner smiled, rubbed his right hand reflectively upon his thigh, glanced casually about the bases, lifted one spiked shoe from the ground, tossed his arms up, and shot the ball away swiftly. Straight for the batsman’s head it went, then settled down, down, and to the left as though attracted by Oliver’s big gloves held a foot above the earth just back of the square of white marble. The man at bat, his eyes glued to the speeding sphere, put his stick far around, and then, with a sudden gasp, whirled it fiercely. There was a thud as the ball settled cozily into Oliver’s leather gloves, a roar from the onlookers, and above it all the umpire’s fatal:
“Striker—out!”
Marty, watching breathless and wide-eyed from the field, threw a handspring and uttered a whoop of joy. The nines changed places, and the last half of the last inning began with the score still 12 to 9 in favor of Vulcan.
“Play carefully, fellows,” shouted Vulcan’s captain as Hamilton went to bat. “We’ve got to shut them out.”
“If youse can,” muttered Marty, seated on the bench between Bob and Wolcott.
It looked as though they could. Bob groaned as Hamilton popped a short fly into second-baseman’s hands, and the rest of the fellows echoed the mournful sound.