“He’s got your goat,” said David. “You’re so all-fired mad that you don’t wait for the ball to get near you.”
“Huh, it’s easy to talk! I suppose you could wait all day.”
“Well, I wouldn’t get tied up tight, stiff as a stick. That’s the trouble with all our team. They’re so keen to hit they can’t wait. Larry’s got them going before they walk out there; and he knows it too, believe me!”
“I suppose you’d be as cool as a cucumber,” Billy jeered.
“As fat as a cucumber, you mean,” suggested Ben. “When Dave leans against the ball it’s like a ton of bricks.”
“We’re out again,” announced Billy, picking up his fielder’s glove. “We’re not so worse in the field; but golly, if we could only hit!”
The Tigers couldn’t hit, however. The crowd on the benches rooted as hard as they could, but the native sons stayed behind. And the visitors grew more dashing. They kept talking to each other on the bases, little remarks filled with self-esteem; it was easy to see they were very well pleased with themselves.
David kept pulling blades of grass, chewing them, spitting them out. Every time that a Tiger came to bat David felt as if it were he himself who was facing that smiling pitcher.
The fifth inning came and went; the score was still the same. Billy Burns, in spite of what David had told him, had struck out again.
Tom stood up and stretched. “No, boys, it isn’t our day—unless something different happens. I guess that old New Hampshire’s got to take the short end.”