Old Stuffy Tyler, once pride of the Athletics, knew pure happiness. Turning his cap round and pulling down a mask, he leaned forward towards his crouch behind the plate. As though they were beginning a real game, his cracked voice rang out. "Play ball!"
11
Well, thought Cy, here we go.
His view through the mask, behind the waggling bat, swept the field before it returned to Moose Wilson oh the mound. Crystal and Bob, standing by the dugout, had been joined by Huntington Davis and Jean, who were gleefully talking.
"Go on!" yelled Bob. "Get started!"
Moose Wilson, on the mound, woke up. He had seen mean-looking batters before. But never such a face as this big fat Lord Merrivale's, which glared at him with the murderousness of an African witch doctor. But the joyousness of his infield made him forget it.
"Toodle-oo, old thing!" the shortstop called happily.
"Pip-pip and all that," carolled the third baseman, trying not to be audible.
Moose grinned. He'd give the old boy an easy one, dead across the pan, but with just a little steam on it to show Moose Wilson took his work seriously and didn't kid much. Moose shifted his weight to his right foot, flexed his arms, and cradled the ball against his stomach.
Then down came the pitch.
Now here, it is to be feared, the subtle harmonies of Robert Browning would be out of place. Description must be more earthy. The ensuing noise, as H.M.'s bat lashed round, can be described only by the comic-strip word BAM.
It is of course not true, as legend now has it, that H.M belted that ball for a quarter of a mile. But it is true that the outfielders stood motionless, their back turned, and watched the ball as it flashed over fence and trees, whence it dwindled to nothingness against a darkening eastern sky.
"Not so bad, Hank," remarked Stuffy Tyler.
The heart and soul of Cy Norton danced a hornpipe.
Crystal, Jean, and Bob were all applauding.
Sir Henry Merrivale, now leaning negligently on his bat, addressed Moose Wilson.
"Come on, son!" he yelled, in a bored and expostulating voice. "Why don't you start pitchin'?’
Though the infielders called congratulations, they still grinned at this lucky fluke. On the face of the Moose there was now a curious look. Stuffy handed out another ball, which Cy threw back to the pitcher for some flat-hand shuffling with dirt
Moose, who might have written his name on every pitch, was now going through an elaborate wind-up. Cy knew what it was. It was the old roundhouse, a slow and wide-breaking out curve which made novices look foolish when they tried to hit it.
"So?" muttered Sir Henry Merrivale.
He shifted his feet, leaned across the plate, and pasted a screamer just inside first base. A simultaneous yell, going up from many throats, showed that mere practice had snapped into the tension of a ball game.
The first basemen, playing well off the bag, lunged left to spear it with his gloved hand, and fell flat on his face. The right fielder, his legs going like a white wheel against green, raced after the ball—until it curved outside the foul line. It thudded into grass, hopped high in the air, hopped again, and disappeared down the shaft of an abandoned well.
For a moment, dead silence.
"Whatfs the matter, son?" H.M. yelled at Stuffy behind him. "Haven't you got any pitchers in this neighbourhood?"
Crystal Manning uttered her low, rich gurgle of laughter.
Again it is not true, as legend has it, that puffs of smoke issued from Moose Wilson's ears. The Moose remained controlled. But the infield showed restlessness. This was sport no longer; it was going to be murder.
"Here's the last ball," shouted Stuffy in his cracked voice, and handed it to Cy. "You threw that ripped one away, so watch out for this!"
"I’ll watch it, Stuffy," the pitcher called back grimly.
Cy Norton, hot and sweating in his mask and pads, knew what they felt It was the sniff of baseball dust as heady as cocaine. The in-fielders, white figures against brown earth, were strung up, on their toes, eyes flickering towards every base at once.
Moose Wilson snaked his fingers out of his glove. He scrabbled in the dirt with both hands, snaked his fingers into the glove, and stood up with the ball.
A very unorthodox umpire spoke behind Cy.
"He's gonna give you the works, Hank," whispered Stuffy. "This is his fast one."
Moose, standing sideways to the batter, stretched out his arms and again cradled the ball to his stomach. Poising himself, he glanced towards an imaginary runner on first, then his arm lashed over.
The ball, a streak of unwinding white yarn, whacked into Cy’s mitt three inches below H.M.'s bat, which had not moved at all. Cy's right hand didn't come near the ball; the ball stuck in his glove.
"Strike—one!" yelped Stuffy, flinging up his right hand.
Cy, feeling the wires and cramps in his legs, stood up from the crouch and threw back to Moose. Moose Wilson grinned round at the infield, who grinned back and felt differently.
Yes, it was a fast one. Cy, crouching again with the front of his mitt automatically moving back and forth towards Moose, was as wild as the team had felt a moment ago.
(Let him belt just one more, Cy was praying. They mean well, but take the grins off their faces! Take...)
Look out!
Down came the pitch again, low and inside, but flicking a corner of the plate before it thudded into the glove. Cy, off-balance, almost fumbled it H.M., though his bat waggled, did not swing.
"Strike—two!" intoned Stuffy.
Cy's throw back to the pitcher was so high that Moose had to jump for it
Sir Henry Merrivale, his face wooden and with an expression of lofty unconcern, moved out of the batter's box. Shifting the bat from one hand to the other, he wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers.
Though ethics forbade them to laugh aloud, from the whole team of the Maralarch Terrors (except their absent catcher) rose a silent wave of amusement and derision. They liked the old boy again; they could pity him.
H.M. stepped back into the box again, resuming his murderous glare.
Moose Wilson, a man of one-track mind, was going to use his fast one again for the strikeout, and with every ounce of speed behind it. His spiked shoe pawed the dirt of the mound.
"Are you ready, lord?" he called with mock sympathy.
"I'm all right son," H.M. yelled back. "You just attend to your pitchin'."
The centre fielder, though he could not have heard this, was lying on his back in helpless mirth, waving his legs in the air. The second baseman sat down on the sack.
Again Moose grinned at his infield. He poised himself, his arm whipped over, and...
"Goddelmighty!" said Stuffy Tyler.
Hardly had the ball seemed to leave Moose's hand when there was that electrifying crack whose very cleanness sings of a line drive deep into the outfield. The ball, vivid white against brown and green, whistled over short with a slow rise between centre and left The centre fielder, caught flat on his back, rolled over and went crazy. The left fielder, calling on two names out of three in the Holy Trinity, tore towards the fence. Roused and stung, the centre fielder passed him.
But they hadn't a chance. Both, unwatchful, smacked headlong into the fence as the ball cleared it by several inches; it slashed and slapped through tree branches, and then rolled along bumpy ground beyond.
"No pitchers," said Sir Henry Merrivale.
"Not like our day," Stuffy agreed sadly.
"Nope."
"Which of 'em do you like best now, Hank? Matty? Old Pete? Walter Johnson? Bob Shaw-key?"