Howls of delight from the Boarders and of disappointment from the enemy; peevish remarks from Williams as he dragged his bat away to the bench; redoubled noise and confusion from the coachers.
Peters, the Towners’ third baseman, was the next batter, and Peters was an open book to Sam. Sam put the first one over, and Peters, just as Sam had expected, let it go by without an offer. Then Sam tried a high one and Peters scoffed at it. Sam followed this with a slow ball that cut the corner of the plate. Mr. Shay called it a ball and Sam turned and regarded him sorrowfully.
“That’s two!” yelled Prince. “Pick out a good one, old man, and just meet it! Make him pitch to you!”
The next delivery looked like the last, but it swung in at the right moment and the umpire called: “Strike! Two and two!” Dolph gave the signal and then held his hands wide apart.
“Now, then, right over the plate, Sammy!” he called. “He can’t hit it!”
Peters smiled craftily. If Dolph asked for one over the plate it meant that the ball would be a wide one, he argued. He was all ready for it in case it should be good, of course, only he wasn’t going to be fooled as easily as that!
“_What?_” Peters stared open-mouthed at Mr. Shay. “It was over my shoulder! Gee, that’s a roast!”
But the batsman’s protest was drowned by the roar of joy from the Boarders.
“Next man!” cried little Smythe, smiting fist into mitt. Sam beckoned the fielders in as Milton Wales stepped to the plate. Wales was a heavy hitter and Sam’s show of confidence in calling the fielders in made Wales scowl. Sam smiled at him sarcastically as he rubbed the ball on his trousers.
“Anywhere I can reach it,” answered Wales angrily.
Sam nodded carelessly and shot a high ball that sent the batter staggering back from the plate.
The next one looked pretty good and Wales swung at it. There was a crack as bat and ball met and in an instant he was racing to first and Wicks and Coolidge were streaking for the plate. But the ball, a hard and low fly, came to earth in Finkler’s meadow, a foul by many yards.
“Foul! Strike!” called Mr. Shay, tossing a new ball to Sam. Sam waited while Wales walked back to the plate.
“Try again, Milt,” he said as the Towner went past him. Wales scowled. The tumult had subsided, for both sides were far too excited to shout. Wales picked up his bat again and stepped into the box. Dolph gave his signal. Sam wound himself up and pitched a wide one that was nowhere near the plate. But Wales, angry and nervous, stepped out and almost struck at it. Sam smiled as he leaned down to rub his hand in the dirt. He had learned what he wanted to know. Wales was “up in the air.” Sam had no doubt now of the outcome. He refused Dolph’s next signal, put his fingers to the brim of his cap, got his reply from Dolph, a cheerful “Now then, Sammy!” and hurled the ball. Straight as an arrow it shot, right across the plate, waist-high, as beautiful a strike as ever was pitched. And Wales knew that it was good and slugged at it, and missed it clean! What a yell of triumph went up from the Boarders!