I say
you can't work him or wait him. He's peggin'
'em out of a gun!''
Several of the Quakers were standing out from
the bench, all intent on the Rube. He had stirred
them up. First it was humor; then ridicule,
curiosity, suspicion, doubt. And I knew it would grow
to wonder and certainty, then fierce attack from
both tongues and bats, and lastly--for ball players
are generous--unstinted admiration.
Somehow, not only the first climaxes of a game
but the decisions, the convictions, the reputations
of pitchers and fielders evolve around the great
hitter. Plain it was that the vast throng of
spectators, eager to believe in a new find, wild to
welcome a new star, yet loath to trust to their own
impulsive judgments, held themselves in check
until once more the great Lane had faced the
Rube.
The field grew tolerably quiet just then. The
Rube did not exert himself. The critical stage
had no concern for him. He pitched Lane a high
curve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meant
to be hit and a ball hard to hit safely. Lane knew
that as well as any hitter in the world, so he let
two of the curves go by--two strikes. Again the
Rube relentlessly gave him the same ball; and
Lane, hitting viciously, spitefully, because he did
not want to hit that kind of a ball, sent up a fly
that Rand easily captured.
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