Merritt received the innocent-looking ball with
a look of mingled disgust and fear, and he summarily
ordered us to our positions.
Not far had we gone, however, when we were
electrified by the umpire's sharp words:
``Naw! Naw, you don't. I saw you change the
ball I gave you fer one in your pocket! Naw!
You don't come enny of your American dodges
on us! Gimmee thet ball, an' you use the other,
or I'll stop the game.''
Wherewith the shrewd umpire took the ball from
Merritt's hand and fished the ``rabbit'' from his
pocket. Our thwarted manager stuttered his
wrath. ``Y-you be-be-wh-whiskered y-yap! I'll
g-g-give----''
What dire threat he had in mind never
materialized, for he became speechless. He glowered
upon the cool little umpire, and then turned
grandly toward the plate.
It may have been imagination, yet I made sure
Merritt seemed to shrink and grow smaller before
he pitched a ball. For one thing the plate was
uphill from the pitcher's box, and then the fellow
standing there loomed up like a hill and swung
a bat that would have served as a wagon tongue.
No wonder Merritt evinced nervousness. Presently
he whirled and delivered the ball.
Bing!
A dark streak and a white puff of dust over
second base showed how safe that hit was. By
dint of manful body work, Hooker contrived to
stop the ``rabbit'' in mid-center.
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