Ten minutes later the teams were all ready to go. Goggles set the levers and threw the switch. From somewhere within the iron pitcher’s strange being came an unaccustomed sound. “Don’t breathe right.” The boy was a trifle startled. “And look, he’s really spouting fire from his iron nostrils. Some—something’s gone wrong again! And we thought nothing could!” He was ready to give up in despair.
Hop threw off the controls, unbolted the back plate and started a careful inspection. He took plenty of time, testing out every wire.
“I tell you there’s nothing wrong,” he muttered.
All this had kept the crowd waiting and it was growing impatient. There were shouts of “Play ball! Play ball!” from every corner.
“What’s to be done?” Goggles groaned. “The crowd will be on the field in a minute. But we can’t let old Irons O burn up.”
“Look! They’re coming! At least one is.” Hop pointed to a huge cowboy riding toward them.
“Well!” Goggles sighed, “We—”
“Look Buddy!” The big cowboy’s tone was deep and mellow. “Do you all plan to play a ball game with that iron thing this afternoon?”
“We—we mean to.”
“And this ain’t no trick to git our money?” The big man looked him squarely in the eyes.