It broke toward the corner of
the plate and would have been a strike had not Berne popped it up.

Callopy, the second hitter, faced the Rube, and he, too, after the
manner of ball players, made some remark meant only for the Rube's
ears. Callopy was a famous waiter. He drove more pitchers mad with his
implacable patience than any hitter in the league. The first one of
the Rube's he waited on crossed the in-corner; the second crossed the
out-corner and the third was Rube's wide, slow, tantalizing
"stitch-ball," as we call it, for the reason that it came so slow a
batter could count the stitches. I believe Callopy waited on that
curve, decided to hit it, changed his mind and waited some more, and
finally the ball maddened him and he had to poke at it, the result
being a weak grounder.

Then the graceful, powerful Lane, champion batter, champion base
runner, stepped to the plate. How a baseball crowd, any crowd,
anywhere, loves the champion batter! The ovation Lane received made me
wonder, with this impressive reception in a hostile camp, what could be
the manner of it on his home field? Any boy ball-player from the lots
seeing Lane knock the dirt out of his spikes and step into position
would have known he was a 400 hitter.

I was curious to see what the Rube would pitch Lane. It must have been
a new and significant moment for Hurtle. Some pitchers actually wilt
when facing a hitter of Lane's reputation. But he, on his baseball
side, was peculiarly unemotional. Undoubtedly he could get furious, but
that only increased his effectiveness. To my amazement the Rube
pitched Lane a little easy ball, not in any sense like his floater or
stitch-ball, but just a little toss that any youngster might have
tossed. Of all possible balls, Lane was not expecting such as that, and
he let it go. If the nerve of it amazed me, what did it not do to
Lane? I saw his face go fiery red. The grand stand murmured; let out
one short yelp of pleasure; the Quaker players chaffed Lane.

The pitch was a strike. I was gripping my chair now, and for the next
pitch I prophesied the Rube's wonderful jump ball, which he had not yet
used. He swung long, and at the end of his swing seemed to jerk
tensely. I scarcely saw the ball. It had marvelous speed. Lane did
not offer to hit it, and it was a strike. He looked at the Rube, then
at Cogswell. That veteran appeared amused. The bleachers, happy and
surprised to be able to yell at Lane,