FullReads

“Huh! Watcher think? We ain ‘t goin’ to play with no mush ball like thet,” protested Bo. “We play with a hard ball. Looka here! We’ll trow up the ball.”

Daddy remembered what he had heard about the singular generosity of the Natchez team to supply the balls for the games they played.

“We don’t hev to pay nothin’ fer them balls. A man down at the Round House makes them for us. They ain’t no balls as good,” explained Bo, with pride.

However, as Bo did not appear eager to pass over the balls for examination Daddy simply reached out and took them. They were small, perfectly round and as hard as bullets. They had no covers. The yarn had been closely and tightly wrapped and then stitched over with fine bees- waxed thread. Daddy fancied he detected a difference in the weight of the ball, but Bo took them back before Daddy could be sure of that point.

“You don’t have to fan about it. I know a ball when I see one,” observed Daddy. “But we’re on our own grounds an’ we’ll use our own ball. Thanks all the same to you, Stranathan.”

“Huh! All I gotta say is we’ll play with my ball er there won’t be no game,” said Bo suddenly.

Daddy shrewdly eyed the Natchez captain. Bo did not look like a fellow wearing himself thin from generosity. It struck Daddy that Bo’s habit of supplying the ball for the game might have some relation to the fact that he always carried along his own umpire. There was a strange feature about this umpire business and it was that Bo’s man had earned a reputation for being particularly fair. No boy ever had any real reason to object to Umpire Gale’s decisions. When Gale umpired away from the Natchez grounds his close decisions always favored the other team, rather than his own. It all made Daddy keen and thoughtful.

“Stranathan, up here on Madden’s Hill we know how to treat visitors. We’ll play with your ball. . . . Now keep your gang of rooters from crowdin’ on the diamond.”

“Boss, it’s your grounds. Fire ’em off if they don’t suit you. . . . Come on, let’s git in the game. Watcher want–field er bat?”

“Field,” replied Daddy briefly.

Billy Gale called “Play,” and the game began with Slugger Blandy at bat. The formidable way in which he swung his club did not appear to have any effect on Frank Price or the player back of him. Frank’s most successful pitch was a slow, tantalizing curve, and he used it. Blandy lunged at the ball, missed it and grunted.

“Frank, you got his alley,” called Lane.

Slugger fouled the next one high in the air back of the plate. Sam Wickhart, the stocky bowlegged catcher, was a fiend for running after foul flies, and now he plunged into the crowd of boys, knocking them right and left, and he caught the ball. Whisner came up and hit safely over Griffith, whereupon the Natchez supporters began to howl. Kelly sent a grounder to Grace at short stop. Daddy’s weak player made a poor throw to first base, so the runner was safe. Then Bo Stranathan batted a stinging ball through the infield, scoring Whisner.

“Play the batter! Play the batter!” sharply called Daddy from the bench.

Then Frank struck out Molloy and retired Dundon on an easy fly.

“Fellers, git in the game now,” ordered Daddy, as his players eagerly trotted in. “Say things to that Muckle Harris! We’ll walk through this game like sand through a sieve.”

Bob Irvin ran to the plate waving his bat at Harris.

“Put one over, you freckleface! I ‘ve been dyin’ fer this chanst. You’re on Madden’s Hill now.”