The pitch was a strike. I was gripping my
chair now, and for the next pitch I prophesied the
Rube's wonderful jump ball, which he had not yet
used. He swung long, and at the end of his swing
seemed to jerk tensely. I scarcely saw the ball.
It had marvelous speed. Lane did not offer to hit
it, and it was a strike. He looked at the Rube,
then at Cogswell. That veteran appeared amused.
The bleachers, happy and surprised to be able to
yell at Lane, yelled heartily.
Again I took it upon myself to interpret the
Rube's pitching mind. He had another ball that
he had not used, a drop, an unhittable drop. I
thought he would use that next. He did, and
though Lane reached it with the bat, the hit was
a feeble one. He had been fooled and the side
was out.
Poole, the best of the Quaker's pitching staff,
walked out to the slab. He was a left-hander,
and Chicago, having so many players who batted
left-handed, always found a southpaw a hard
nut to crack. Cogswell, field manager and
captain of the Quakers, kicked up the dust around
first base and yelled to his men: ``Git in the
game!''
Staats hit Poole's speed ball into deep short
and was out; Mitchell flew out to Berne; Rand
grounded to second.
While the teams again changed sides the fans
cheered, and then indulged in the first stretch of
the game.
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