All eyes were centered on Clammer. If he had
taken it right the incident might have passed without
undue hilarity. But Clammer became absolutely
wild with rage. It was well known that
he was unmarried. Equally well was it seen that
Gilbat had executed one of his famous tricks.
Ball players were inclined to be dignified about
the presentation of gifts upon the field, and
Clammer, the dude, the swell, the lady's man, the
favorite of the baseball gods--in his own estimation--
so far lost control of himself that he threw
his bat at his retreating tormentor. Red jumped
high and the bat skipped along the ground toward
the bench. The players sidestepped and leaped
and, of course, the bat cracked one of Delaney's
big shins. His eyes popped with pain, but he
could not stop laughing. One by one the players
lay down and rolled over and yelled. The
superior Clammer was not overliked by his co-
players.
From the grand stand floated the laughter of
ladies and gentlemen. And from the bleachers--
that throne of the biting, ironic, scornful fans--
pealed up a howl of delight. It lasted for a full
minute. Then, as quiet ensued, some boy blew a
blast of one of those infernal little instruments of
pipe and rubber balloon, and over the field wailed
out a shrill, high-keyed cry, an excellent imitation
of a baby.
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