The second baseman whipped the ball down to first for what would have been, in a real game, a sparkling double play.
"That's stepping on it," Martin shrilled. "Everybody on his toes."
"Man on first and third," cried the coach, and batted the ball down the third-base line.
Littlefield, the third baseman ran in, took the ball on a bound, and drove it home. Hammond lined the leather down to second base. The throw was high; but a red-stockinged figure seemed to soar miraculously into the air and pluck the ball as it was flying past.
"Pretty work," muttered the coach. Aloud he called: "Martin! What was the matter with you? Why didn't you swing your arm down at the runner?"
"What was the use, Coach? With all the time he had he'd have been curled around the base."
"Didn't you ever hear of a runner oversliding the bag?"
The boy, without another word, went back to his place hitting his right hand viciously into his glove. When the ball came his way again, he was on it like a terrier, and whizzed it across the diamond into the first baseman's mitt.
"If he'd only fight that way on other things," the coach mumbled—and sighed. Later, when
