certainty. Old fox Wehying appeared nervous.
He wasted two balls on Red; then he put one over
the plate, and then he wasted another. Three
balls and one strike! That was a bad place for a
pitcher, and with Red Gilbat up it was worse.
Wehying swung longer and harder to get all his
left behind the throw and let drive. Red lunged
and cracked the ball. It went up and up and kept
going up and farther out, and as the murmuring
audience was slowly transfixed into late realization
the ball soared to its height and dropped
beyond the left-field fence. A home run!

Red Gilbat gathered up the tails of his duster,
after the manner of a neat woman crossing a
muddy street, and ambled down to first base and
on to second, making prodigious jumps upon the
bags, and round third, to come down the home-
stretch wagging his red head. Then he stood on
the plate, and, as if to exact revenge from the
audience for the fun they made of him, he threw
back his shoulders and bellowed: ``HAW! HAW!
HAW!''

Not a handclap greeted him, but some mindless,
exceedingly adventurous fan yelled: ``Redhead!
Redhead! Redhead!''

That was the one thing calculated to rouse Red
Gilbat. He seemed to flare, to bristle, and he