It never reached Sam Turner's hands; instead it bounced off the bat with a "crack!" and sailed right down through Billy Westlake, who, at second, made a frantic grab for it, and then it spun out between center and right field, losing itself in the bushes, while Hollis, amid the frantic cheers of the audience, which consisted of Miss Josephine Stevens and several unconsidered other spectators, tore around the circuit.

His colleagues strove wildly to hold Hollis at third, for the ball was found and was sailing over to that base.

It arrived there just as he did, but far over the head of the third baseman, and fat, curly-haired Hollis, who looked like an ice wagon but ran like a motorcycle, secured the first run for Hollis Creek.
The next batter was up.

Princeman, his confidence loftily unshaken, gave a correct imitation of a pretzel and delivered the ball.

The batsman swung viciously at it.
Spat! It landed in Sam's glove.
"Strike one!" called the strident voice of Blackrock, who, jerking himself back several years into youth again, was umpiring the game with great joy.