David stepped back, a bit surprised, while the crowd gave a groan.
“Ball one!” There was a little ripple of satisfaction.
“But he’s got to hit it,” Tom muttered in Tuckerman’s ear. “A base on balls won’t do. The next fellow’d go out.”
And David knew he’d got to hit it, and kept telling himself not to tighten up. “Easy does it, easy does it,” kept singing over and over in his mind. If he tried too hard Lanky would get him just as he had gotten the others; and he knew perfectly well that was what Lanky intended that he should do.
“Strike two!”
Larry had outguessed him that time, giving him a slow drop. David eased his muscles, smiled his confident smile, settled evenly on his feet. This next would be the in-shoot. Larry would save that for the last. “Easy does it; take your time.” David looked at the pitcher, not angrily, not intently, just with a jovial dare.
And the bat, with David’s shoulders behind it, and his waist and his legs as well, met that ball as it curved in toward him fair and square on the nose. There was a mighty crack—the sort that sings in the ears and makes the pulses tingle—and away and away went the ball. Over the pitcher’s head, over the heads of the fielders; far out in the field it struck the ground at last and bounded over the stone wall. It brought up against a cow, that was lying down in a meadow, and it gave her such a bump that she rose in haste and went galloping away, not knowing what had struck her. And by the time the first Amoussock outfielder touched that ball Sam Noyes and the next Tiger and David had circled the bases and the game was won.
Billy Burns hopped over to David, forgetful of his sprained ankle. “Put it there, old scout!” he cried, holding out his hand. “I never saw such a hit! Gee whillikins! Dave, you’re the stuff all right!”
“Easy does it,” said David, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Easy!” exclaimed Billy. “You call that easy! I’d like to know what you do to a ball when you hit it hard!”