“Dud!” Nick had never called him that before, and somehow the thought steadied him remarkably. To be sure, his knees were still a trifle wobbly as he studied Gordon’s fingers laid against the back of his mitt, but the stage-fright was passing.
“Let’s get him, Baker,” called Gordon as he arose from his crouch and held hands wide apart. “You’ve got the stuff, old man!”
With a man on third watching for the least excuse to race home, a full wind-up was out of the question, and Dud realized that he must depend more on cunning than speed. Gordon had shown three fingers horizontal, and three fingers horizontal called for a low curve ball. Dud, emulating the example of Myatt, surveyed the bases slowly, pulled his cap down, tried to shut out the wild cries of the coachers, snuggled the ball in his fingers, threw his arm up, took his stride and pitched.
At the plate the batter moved up on the ball, hesitated and let it pass.
“Strike!” said the umpire.
There was cheering from the stand, yells of triumph from the players in the field, but Dud scarcely heard them. Gordon, walking down the alley, thumped ball and mitt together. “That’s the stuff, Baker!” he cried. “One-and-two now! Let’s have him out!” He tossed the ball back, a watchful eye on third, went back to his place, crouched, signaled and again held hands wide apart. He wanted a drop and he got it, but it shaved too closely the outer corner and the umpire judged it a ball. Gordon turned indignantly.
“What!”
“You heard what I said,” returned the official crisply.
Gordon grinned and returned the ball. “It looked good, Baker! Let’s have it again!”
But it was “one finger” this time, and the fast one that sailed straight across the plate caught the batsman napping, and the umpire’s “Strike—two!” was drowned in a shout of joy from the Grafton sympathizers.