Now, [there was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about], and that was a nice, clean, straight one, guiltless of curve or drop or rise, the kind that “Whitey” Peters pitched in the vacant lot back of Keller’s Livery Stable. And Marty knew that kind when he saw it coming. Fair and square he caught it, just where he wanted it on the bat. All his strength, heart, and soul were behind that swing. There was a sharp crack, a sudden mighty roar from the watchers, and Marty was speeding toward first base.
[There was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about.]
High and far sped the ball. Center and left fielder turned as one man and raced up the field. Obeying instructions, they had been playing well in, and now they were to rue it. The roar of the crowd grew in volume. Warner, Bob, and Howe were already racing home, and Marty, running as hard as his legs would carry him, was touching second. Far up the field the ball was coming to earth slowly, gently, yet far too quickly for the fielders.
“A home run!” shrieked Wolcott. “Come on—oh, come on, Marty, my boy!”
Warner was home, now Bob, and then Howe was crossing the plate, and Marty was leaving second behind him. Would the fielder catch it? He dared look no longer, but sped onward. Then a new note crept into the shouts of the Vulcans, a note of disappointment, of despair. Up the field the center-fielder had tipped the ball with one outstretched hand, but had failed to catch it! At last, however, it was speeding home toward second base.
“Come on! Come on, Marty!” shrieked Bob.
The boy’s twinkling feet spurned the third bag and he swung homeward. The ball was settling into the second-baseman’s hands. The latter turned quickly and threw it straight, swift, unswerving toward the plate.
“Slide!” yelled Bob and Warner, in a breath.