“I hear that Lanky Larry’s a terror.” This from Tom.
“Terror’s the word,” Billy admitted. “Say, Dave, you think you’re some hitter in Barmouth. But you’ve never stacked up against his class.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said David. “I’ve sent some good men to the discard. Howsomever, it’s not up to me this afternoon to tackle the strangers. I’m neutral to-day.”
“Go to it, Billy!” said Ben. “We’re going to root for you. Of course we are. We’re not pikers.”
It was clear that this was a big day in the eyes of the community. A hay-wagon rattled up, loaded with empty boxes and a pile of boards. The boxes were stood on end on the ground and the planks placed across them, and the seats thus made were instantly filled by boys and girls. On the opposite side waved a large banner, white with a gigantic red A in the centre. There were shouts and cheers from both sides as the two teams gathered round the umpire; then the Tigers ran out to take the field and the first Amoussock batter stepped up to the plate.
The campers from Cotterell’s Island sat on the grass with the New Hampshire boys. Half the fun of watching any contest is in rooting for one side to win, and naturally the campers were backing the home nine. The Amoussocks had a superior air, partly due perhaps to their snappy suits and partly to the fact that they had beaten the Tigers each of the two summers before. And they knew how to play baseball; there was a snap and precision about their work that was the result of constant coaching in teamwork.
Against them the home team, mostly the sons of neighboring farmers, boys who had to coach themselves and only played together on Saturdays, showed at a decided disadvantage. They had plenty of fighting spirit and kept right up on their toes, playing for all they were worth, taking big chances in stealing bases and backing each other up on every throw. But they couldn’t hit Lanky Larry—not to any extent; and the Amoussocks could, and did, hit Sam Noyes, the Tiger pitcher.
David shook his head as the third inning ended. “That Lanky’s got ’em where he wants ’em,” he said. “He eases up a bit, and lets us get a hit or two; but watch him in the pinches. He can tighten up and shoot ’em over. Yes, siree,—nothing he likes better than a couple of them on the bases, and then putting over three strikes, simple as you please.”
Tom took a blade of grass from his mouth. “And he keeps grinning. Nothing riles a batter worse than that sort of a pitcher. ‘See how simple it is,’ he says with that smile. ‘Like taking candy from a kid to get a strike on you’—and he goes ahead and shoots one over while you’re planning how you’ll wipe the grin from his face.”
Billy Burns dropped down beside them. “Two to nothing,” he declared. “Sam’s doing mighty well, but Lanky’s doing better. It’s that in-shoot of his. I know just where it’s going, but hang it all! every blessed time I reach right out for it.”