“Ball!” droned the umpire, and the blue flags waved gleefully.
The next was also a ball, and the next, and the next, and—
“Take your base,” said the umpire.
“Thunder!” muttered Chick nervously as the man trotted leisurely down the line and the sharp cheers rattled forth like musketry. “Bases full!”
“He did it on purpose,” said Roy Porter. “Burton’s a hard-hitter and a clever one, and Pritchett didn’t want to risk it.”
“Well, a hit now won’t mean a thing!” grieved Chick.
“It’ll mean two runs; just what it meant before,” answered Roy. “Who’s this at bat?”
“Kneeland,” answered his neighbor on the other side, referring to his score-card.
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing. Got his base twice, once on fielder’s choice and once on balls.”
“That’s good. Watch Pritchett fool him.”
They watched, breathlessly, in an agony of suspense. One ball; one strike; two strikes; two balls; a foul; another foul.
“He’s spoiling ’em,” muttered Chick uneasily.
