“Lift it, Will, lift it!” implored Bob as Pickering strode to the plate. And lift it he did. Unfortunately, however, when it descended it went plump into the hands of right field. In the stand half the throng was on its feet. Bob looked hopelessly at Warner as the pitcher selected a bat.
“Cheer up, Bob,” said the latter, grinning. “I’m going to crack that ball or know the reason why!”
The Vulcan pitcher was slow and careful. They had taken the wearied Baker out and put in a new twirler. Warner let his first effort pass unnoticed, and looked surprised when the umpire called it a strike. But he received the next one with a hearty welcome, and sent it speeding away for a safe hit, taking first base amid the wild cheers of the little group of blue-and-white-decked watchers. Hamilton hurried across to coach the runner, and Bob stepped to the plate. His contribution was a swift liner that was too hot for the pitcher, one that placed Warner on second and himself on first. Then, with Hamilton and Sleeper both coaching at the top of their lungs, the Vulcan catcher fumbled a ball at which Howe had struck, and the two runners moved up. The restive audience had overflowed on to the field now, and excitement reigned supreme. Another strike was called on Howe, and for a moment Summerville’s chances appeared to be hopeless. But a minute later the batter was limping to first, having been struck with the ball, and the pitcher was angrily grinding his heel into the ground.
“Webster at bat!” called the scorer.
“That’s you, Marty,” said Wolcott. “If you never do another thing, my boy, swat that ball!”
Marty picked out a bat and strode courageously to the plate. A roar of laughter greeted his appearance.
“Get on to Blue Jeans!” “Give us a home run, kid!” “Say, now, sonny, don’t fall over your pants!”
It needed just that ridicule to dispel Marty’s nervousness. He was angry. How could he help his “pants” being long? he asked himself, indignantly. He’d show those dudes that “pants” hadn’t anything to do with hitting a baseball! He shut his teeth hard, gripped the bat tightly, and faced the pitcher. The latter smiled at his adversary, but was not willing to take any chances, with the bases full. And so, heedless of the requests to “Toss him an easy one, Joe!” he delivered a swift, straight drop over the plate.
“Strike!” droned the little umpire, skipping aside.
Marty frowned, but gave no other sign of the chill of disappointment that traveled down his spine. On the bench Wolcott turned to his next neighbor and said, as he shook his head sorrowfully: