The first batter was Weir. Ken swung easily and let drive. Straight as a string the ball sped for the batter. Like a flash he dropped flat in the dust and the ball just grazed him. It was a narrow escape. Weir jumped up, his face flaring, his hair on end, and he gazed hard at Ken before picking up the bat.
“Batter up!” ordered the coach. “Do you think this's a tea-party?”
Weir managed by quick contortions to get through his time at bat without being hit. Three players following him were not so lucky.
“Didn't I say he was wild?” yelled the coach. “Batter up, now!”
The next was little Raymond. He came forward cautiously, eying Ken with disapproval. Ken could not resist putting on a little more steam, and the wind of the first ball whipped off Raymond's green cap. Raymond looked scared and edged away from the plate, and as the second ball came up he stepped wide with his left foot.
“Step into the ball,” said the coach. “Don't pull away. Step in or you'll never hit.”
The third ball cracked low down on Raymond's leg.
“Oh!—Oh!—Oh!” he howled, beginning to hop and hobble about the cage.
“Next batter!” called out Arthurs.
And so it went on until the most promising player in the cage came to bat. This was Graves, a light-haired fellow, tall, built like a wedge. He had more confidence than any player in the squad and showed up well in all departments of the game. Moreover, he was talky, aggressive, and more inclined to be heard and felt. He stepped up and swung his bat at Ken.