The Redheaded Outfield by Zane Grey
page 34 of 267 (12%)
page 34 of 267 (12%)
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But when I had seen him throw one ball to his
catcher I grew as keen as a fox on a scent. What speed he had! I got round closer to him and watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a giant. To be sure, he was lean, rawboned as a horse, but powerful. What won me at once was his natural, easy swing. He got the ball away with scarcely any effort. I wondered what he could do when he brought the motion of his body into play. ``Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?'' I asked of a boy. ``Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it ain't. Huh!'' replied this country youngster. Evidently my question had thrown some implication upon this particular player. ``I reckon you be a stranger in these parts,'' said a pleasant old fellow. ``His name's Hurtle --Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He hain't lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee! Never pitched any before, nuther.'' Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name! Rickettsville chose the field and the game began. Hurtle swung with his easy motion. The ball shot across like a white bullet. It was a strike, and so |
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