“Don’t be too sure,” Johnny warned.
“Listen to that crowd!” Goggles exclaimed once more.
Led by Meggy Strawn, a streak of gold and blue that danced across the grass, the crowd was chanting:
A Prince! A Prince! A Prince!
No quince! No quince! No quince!
A Peach! A Peach! A Peach!
We win! Yea! Yea!
As for the “Prince,” he seemed totally unconscious of his surroundings as he slid one more stinger over the plate.
“It is strange,” Johnny said to Goggles, “strange about that pitcher, I mean. Colonel Chamberlain has had him working in his laboratories for more than three months. The pay-roll proves that. But who knew it? The pay-master and Colonel Chamberlain, that’s all. Queer, isn’t it? And now, when everything seems lost for old Hillcrest, he walks right into the picture. He takes the ball, and whang! How it pops into that old mit! Not a man will get to first. See! There goes one of ’em. Three strikes and out. Great, I’d say! Suppose he can keep it up?”
He did not wait for an answer. Instead, he allowed his eyes to seek a spot in the sky. Something up there interested him.