"Not yet," answered Mr. Barry. He consulted his score-card. "Alfred Boggs," he said. "I hope he does better than his predecessor."
But "Alf," as the right fielder was generally called, didn't. He simply fanned the air vigorously and was retired.
"Now 'Jack Frost,'" exclaimed Bob Somers, "see if you can't be the first to solve Tippen's delivery."
"Get those glum looks off your faces, fellows," admonished Coach Steele. "I'll admit Tippen is a mighty good lad; but, remember, they haven't put a run across the plate yet."
"And won't, either!" cried Tom.
The team eagerly watched "Jack Frost," as he faced his rival. The Star crowd still kept up their yells and quips. Frost, however, scarcely heard them. He had a burning ambition to send a "grass-cutter" safely out of reach of the shortstop.
"Gee, if I only get half a chance!" he murmured.
With every nerve at high tension he waited.
Striking vigorously at the first pitched ball, an electrifying crack filled his heart with glee.
But the sphere, instead of taking the course he had hoped, launched itself fiercely upward and in the direction of the three gentlemen on the bench. The catcher, dashing his mask to the ground, sprinted hard.