rove wildly to hold Hollis
at third, for the ball was found and was sailing over to that base. It
arrived there just as he did, but far over the head of the third
baseman, and fat, curly-haired Hollis, who looked like an ice wagon but
ran like a motorcycle, secured the first run for Hollis Creek.

The next batter was up. Princeman, his confidence loftily unshaken,
gave a correct imitation of a pretzel and delivered the ball. The
batsman swung viciously at it.

Spat! It landed in Sam's glove.

"Strike one!" called the strident voice of Blackrock, who, jerking
himself back several years into youth again, was umpiring the game with
great joy. Nonchalantly Sam snapped the ball back over-hand.
Princeman smiled with calm superiority. He wound himself up.

Spat! The ball had cut the plate and was in Sam's hands, while the
batsman stood looking earnestly at the path over which it had come.

"Strike two!" called Blackstone.

Sam jerked the ball back with an underwrist toss of great perfection.
Princeman drew himself up with smiling ease and posed a moment for the
edification of the on-lookers. Sam Turner was the very first to detect
the unbearable arrogance of that pose. Princeman eyed the batsman
critically, mercilessly even, and delivered the third fatal
plate-splitter.

Z-z-z-ing! The sphere slammed right out through Billy Westlake, who
made a frantic grab for it. It bounded down between center and right
field, and the players bumped shoulders in trying to stop it. It
nestled among the bushes. The batsman tore around the bases. His
colleagues tried to hold him at third, for the ball was streaking in
that direction, but the batsman pawed straight on. The ball crossed
the base before he did, but it bounded between the third sacker's feet,
and score two was marked up for Hollis Creek, with nobody out!

With undiminished confidence, though somewhat annoyed, Princeman made a
cute little knot of himself for the next batsman.

Spat! The ball landed in Sam's glove, two feet wide of the plate.

"Ball one!" called Blackstone.

Spat! In Sam's glove again, with the batsman jumping back to save his
ribs.

"Ball two!" cried Blackstone.

Spat!

"Ball three."

"Put 'em over, Princeman!" yelled Billy Westlake from second.

"Don't be afraid of him! He couldn't hit it with a pillow!" jeered the
third baseman.

In a calm, superior sort of way, Mr. Princeman smiled and shot over the
ball.

"Four balls.