Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervously
over the ball. I thought it best not to say more
to him, for he had a rather wild look. I remembered
my own stage fright upon my first appearance
in fast company. Besides I knew what my
amiable players would say to him. I had a secret
hope and belief that presently they would yell
upon the other side of the fence.

McCall, my speedy little left fielder, led
off at bat. He was full of ginger, chipper as
a squirrel, sarcastic as only a tried ball player
can be.

``Put 'em over, Slats, put 'em over,'' he called,
viciously swinging his ash.

Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box and
seemed to be rolling something in his mouth.
Then he moved his arm. We all saw the ball
dart down straight--that is, all of us except
McCall, because if he had seen it he might have
jumped out of the way. Crack! The ball hit him
on the shin.

McCall shrieked. We all groaned. That crack
hurt all of us. Any baseball player knows how it
hurts to be hit on the shinbone. McCall waved
his bat madly.