That made everybody laugh, with the result that Lanky, when he pitched the ball, threw it wide and missed the plate by a couple of inches.
“Ball one!” proclaimed the umpire.
“Make it be good!” yelled Ben.
David hitched up his trousers and lifted his bat again. Lanky patted the ball and smiled, but not so broadly. He shot the next one across the plate with speed and precision, David letting it go by without swinging at it.
“Strike one!” sang the umpire.
“You’ve got him, Lanky!” came a voice from the ranks of the Amoussocks.
“Oh dear!” sighed a girl on the Tiger’s bench, loud enough to be heard across the diamond; “I thought this fellow looked like he could knock a home run!”
There was a titter, a ripple of laughter, and Larry, fondling the ball, looked over in the direction of the girl and grinned from ear to ear.
The ball shot from his hand. There was a crack—sharp and stinging;—Larry reached out, missed the ball as it whizzed by—whizzed on over the bag at second base, sizzled on into the outfield. Centrefield couldn’t touch it; that ball simply wouldn’t stop, and didn’t until it struck a stone wall at the end of the field.
By the time the ball got back David was standing on third base, and the Tiger rooters were splitting the air with yells.