cans made it impossible to hear what
the umpire called out. But that was not important, for he seldom had a
chance to call either ball or strike. Harris had lost his speed and
nearly every ball he pitched was hit by the Madden's Hill boys. Irvine
cracked one down between short and third. Bo and Pickens ran for it
and collided while the ball jauntily skipped out to left field and,
deftly evading Bell, went on and on. Bob reached third. Grace hit
another at Dundon, who appeared actually to stop it four times before
he could pick it up, and then he was too late. 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. It was as if he was being rewarded in joy for
all the misery he had suffered because he was a cripple. He could never
play baseball, but he had baseball brains. He had been too wise for
the tricky Stranathan. He was the coach and manager and general of the
great Madden's Hill nine. If ever he had to lie awake at night again he
would not mourn over his lameness; he would have something to think
about. To him would be given the glory of beating the invincible
Natchez team. So Daddy felt the last bit