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The Redheaded Outfield by Zane Grey
page 34 of 267 (12%)
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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