The
doughty bow-legged Sam, with his huge black eye,
hung over the plate and howled at Muckle. In
the din no one heard what he said, but evidently
Muck divined it. For he roused to the spirit of
a pitcher who would die of shame if he could not
fool a one-eyed batter. But Sam swooped down
and upon the first ball and drove it back toward
the pitcher. Muck could not get out of the way
and the ball made his leg buckle under him. Then
that hit glanced off to begin a marvelous exhibition
of high and erratic bounding about the infield.
Daddy hunched over his soap-box bench and
hugged himself. He was farsighted and he saw
victory. Again he watched the queer antics of that
little yarn ball, but now with different feelings.
Every hit seemed to lift him to the skies. He kept
silent, though every time the ball fooled a Natchez
player Daddy wanted to yell. And when it started
for Bo and, as if in revenge, bounded wickeder at
every bounce to skip off the grass and make Bo
look ridiculous, then Daddy experienced the
happiest moments of his baseball career. Every time
a tally crossed the plate he would chalk it down
on his soap box.
But when Madden's Hill scored the nineteenth
run without a player being put out, then Daddy
lost count. He gave himself up to revel. He sat
motionless and silent; nevertheless his whole
internal being was in the state of wild tumult.
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