a match was under way
“It’s the sheepskins against the calfskins—Factory 1 against Factory 2,” explained a man at his elbow. “Factory 1 could do ’em if we had a decent pitcher. O’Brien, who is pitching, isn’t much even when he’s in the best of trim; to-day he happens to have a sprained finger, so he’s worse than usual.”
Instantly Peter was alert. Wasn’t he Factory 1? He forgot his fatigue—forgot everything except how it felt to pitch when one had a sprained finger.
“I can pitch a ball,” he ventured modestly.
“Can you then? O’Brien!” bawled the man. “Here’s a lad who says he can pitch. Give him a try, won’t you?”
Despite aching muscles and tired back Peter suddenly found himself on the diamond with the ball in his hands. It was the first familiar experience that had come to him that day. His blood warmed. He sent a twirler over the plate and was greeted by a roar from the Factory 1 men. The ball dropped with a smack into the hands of the catcher.
Peter tried another.
He pitched a third.
Vainly the man at the bat tried to hit them.
“Three strikes and out!” called the umpire.