Now, Durville came to bat, and the captain of the Army nine was
an accurate and hard hitter.
"Ball one!"
"Strike one!"
"Strike two!"
"Ball two!"
Then came a slight swish of willow against leather. Durville
had at last succeeded in just touching the ball. But it was a
foul hit, and that was all. Dan, however, was not out at the
side in time to pick that foul into his own mitten.
Durville, his face somewhat pale and teeth clenched, stood ready
for his last chance. It came, in one of Darrin's trickiest throws.
It was no use, after all. Durville missed, and Dalzell didn't.
"Strike three---striker out!"
"Prescott, you know that Navy fellow! Go after him---hammer him
all the way down the river!" groaned Durville in a low voice as
Dick came forward.
Dan's quick ears heard, however, and his grin broadened. Well
enough Dalzell knew that Darrin had a lot of box tricks secreted
that would fool even a Prescott.
But Dick was not to be rattled, at any rate. He picked up the
bat, "hefted" it briefly, then stepped up beside the plate, ready
in a few seconds after Durville had gone disconsolately back to
the bench.
"I won't try to decipher Dave's deliveries; I'll judge them by
what they look like after the ball has started," swiftly decided
Prescott.
"Ball one!"
"Ball two!"
"Strike one!"
"Strike two!"
"Crack!"
So fast did Prescott start when that fly popped, that he was nearly
half way to first base when he dropped his bat.
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