"Strike one!"
At the next Darrin's judgment forbade him to offer, but the umpire
judged it a fair ball, and called:
"Strike two!"
Dalzell, on the bench, was leaning forward now, his chin plunged
in between his hands.
"Dick Prescott hasn't lost any of his knack for surprises," muttered
Danny. "And if we, who know his old tricks, can't fathom him at
all, what are the other seven of us going to do?"
As the ball arched slowly back into Dick's hands, Dalzell, in
his anxiety, found himself leaping to his feet.
And now Prescott pitched, in answer to Greg's signal, what looked
like a coming jump ball.
Dave Darrin knew that throw, and was ready. In another instant
he could have dropped with chagrin, for the ball, after all, was
another "drop," and Greg Holmes had mitted it for the Army in
tune to the umpire's:
"Strike three-out! Two out!"
"David, little giant, your hand!" begged Dalzell, in a fiery whisper
as his chum reached the bench.
"What's up?" asked Darrin half suspiciously.
"Agree with me, now---make deep and loud the solemn vow that we'll
use Dick and Greg just as they've treated us!"
"We will, if we can," nodded Darrin, more serious than his chum.
"But I always try to tell you, Danny boy, that it's best not to do
your bragging until after you've scuttled your ship."
Just as Dave had stepped away from the plate, Hutchins, the little
first baseman of the Navy, had bounded forward.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154