But it was soon evident to the watchers that Erskine was not to score. Billings hit a short grounder to first-baseman who scooped it up and tagged the bag before the batsman was half-way toward it. Joe Perkins had two strikes called on him ere he found the ball, and sent a high foul into the hands of left-fielder. He tossed aside the bat with a look of disgust and paused on his way back to the bench to whisper into the ear of Motter, the next victim to the deceptive curves of the merciless Vose. Joe crowded into a space between Billings and Tracy Gilberth.
“I can’t find him,” he sighed.
“No, hang him,” growled Tracy, “he’s too much for any of us. But I’ll bet he’ll let down before the game’s over; and then—well, then we want to be ready, Joe!”
“Do you think he will? It doesn’t look like it.”
Tracy nodded knowingly.
“His arm’s getting stiff. I know the signs. So’s mine, for that matter, and I’ve pitched perfectly rotten ball, Joe!”
“Nonsense, you’ve done good work. But let me know as soon as you want to quit, Tracy. How about the next inning?”
“That’s for you to say,” answered Tracy. “But I guess I can hold out through the seventh, if you don’t mind.”
“All right; I’ll put King in for the eighth. Oh, hang! Come on, fellows! Out on the run!”
Motter had struck out, and was trotting to his position at first, drawing on his glove and looking wofully sad. The Robinson band struck up again, and the Erskine contingent, not to be outdone, started the cheers once more, while the purple-sleeved players spread out over the diamond.