“Hard luck! If it had only been some one else’s turn now, we might have scored. I guess little Marty’s not up to curves.”
Marty watched the next delivery carefully—and let it pass.
“Ball!” called the umpire.
Again he held himself in, although it was all he could do to keep from swinging at the dirty-white globe as it sped by him.
“Two balls!”
“That’s right, Marty; wait for a good one,” called Wolcott, hoping against hope that Marty might get to first on balls. Marty made no answer, but stood there, pale of face but cool, while the ball sped around the bases and at last went back to the pitcher. Again the sphere sped forward. Now was his time! With all his strength he swung his bat—and twirled around on his heel! A roar of laughter swept across the diamond.
“Strike two!” cried the umpire.
But Marty, surprised at his failure, yet undaunted, heard nothing save the umpire’s unmoved voice. Forward flew the ball again, this time unmistakably wide of the plate, and the little man in the snuff-colored alpaca coat motioned to the right.
“Three balls!”
Bob, restlessly lifting his feet to be off and away on his dash to third, waited with despairing heart. Victory or defeat depended upon the next pitch. A three-bagger would tie the score, a safe hit would bring Sleeper to the bat! But as he looked at the pale-faced, odd-looking figure beside the plate he realized how hopeless it all was. The pitcher, thinking much the same thoughts, prepared for his last effort. Plainly the queer little ragamuffin was no batsman, and a straight ball over the plate would bring the agony to an end. Up went his hand, and straight and sure sped the globe.