He was another Billy Hamilton,
built like a wedge. I saw him laugh at the long
pitcher.
Whit swayed back, coiled and uncoiled. Something
thin, white, glancing, shot at Berne. He
ducked, escaping the ball by a smaller margin
than appeared good for his confidence. He spoke
low to the Rube, and what he said was probably
not flavored with the milk of friendly sweetness.
``Wild! What'd you look for?'' called out
Cogswell scornfully. ``He's from the woods!''
The Rube swung his enormously long arm, took
an enormous stride toward third base, and pitched
again. It was one of his queer deliveries. The
ball cut the plate.
``Ho! Ho!'' yelled the Quakers.
The Rube's next one was his out curve. It
broke toward the corner of the plate and would
have been a strike had not Berne popped it up.
Callopy, the second hitter, faced the Rube, and
he, too, after the manner of ball players, made
some remark meant only for the Rube's ears.
Callopy was a famous waiter. He drove more
pitchers mad with his implacable patience than
any hitter in the league. The first one of the
Rube's he waited on crossed the in-corner; the
second crossed the out-corner and the third was
Rube's wide, slow, tantalizing ``stitch-ball,'' as
we call it, for the reason that it came so slow a
batter could count the stitches.
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