Daddy tried not to notice the scoring of runs
by his opponents. But he had to see them and he
had to count. Ten runs were as ten blows! After
that each run scored was like a stab in his heart.
The play went on, a terrible fusilade of wicked
ground balls that baffled any attempt to field them.
Then, with nineteen runs scored, Natchez appeared
to tire. Sam caught a foul fly, and Tay
Tay, by obtruding his wide person to the path of
infield hits, managed to stop them, and throw out
the runners.
Score--Natchez, 21; Madden Hill, 3.
Daddy's boys slouched and limped wearily in.
``Wot kind of a ball's that?'' panted Tom, as
he showed his head with a bruise as large as a
goose-egg.
``T-t-t-t-ta-ta-tay-tay-tay-tay----'' began Mohler,
in great excitement, but as he could not
finish what he wanted to say no one caught
his meaning.
Daddy's watchful eye had never left that
wonderful, infernal little yarn ball. Daddy was
crushed under defeat, but his baseball brains still
continued to work. He saw Umpire Gale leisurely
step into the pitcher's box, and leisurely pick up
the ball and start to make a motion to put it in
his pocket.
Suddenly fire flashed all over Daddy.
``Hyar! Don't hide that ball!'' he yelled, in
his piercing tenor.
He jumped up quickly, forgetting his crutch,
and fell headlong.
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