As was prognosticated, the heavy hitter to Cape Verde Islands arose to the occasion and smacked a fair one on the nose to left which the fielder fumbled. He lead off a dozen feet and made second with a hook slide when a foul tip clipped the catchers’ finger and the ball rolled to the screen. The tension increased. From where he stood, legs apart and watchful, O’Toole stormed and upbraided at the top of his voice, swearing by the web-footed, bald-headed Siamese twins, while the pitcher and backstop conferred. The umpire’s indicator shewed two men on bases and no one out when the third birdman stepped over to the plate and stood motionless as Sejanus on his horse. His plan or the captain’s orders counseled a waiting policy, and such patience was repaid with four balls, earning first base, forcing his mates and filling the bags. Whoops and yells tore jagged holes in the atmosphere, and even momentarily disconcerted the fourth and last friendly batter. “Slim” threw him a swift ball at which he swung to no purpose, and it lodged with a resounding plop in the cavity of the catcher’s mitt. Again the man on the mound moistened the now soiled horsehide and repeated the performance, but the strain was terrific and his features registered it plainly. The next one was low and wide. Once more he threw, transmitting decided curve to the sphere, but it lacked sustained velocity and slowed down in progress. The waiting batter saw his opportunity, breathed a fervent “Welcome Mr. Spalding” and received it squarely. The ball sailed over the pitcher’s head and past the shortstop’s clutching digits just at the instant Spider O’Toole was vociferating “Oh, you son of a snail”. This compliment to the exhausted “Slim” smothered in his mouth as he realized the sphere was heading to his territory. True to instinct, his tentacular mechanism sprang alert and making a sanguine, mighty vault his fingers just touched the ball, the contact and a puff of wind diverting its course and down it came behind him not far off. The dirty ball ceased rolling two yards away, resting in one of those shady, somewhat deep hollows in the black loam close to the river bank and fence. Alive to the crucial situation quivering at half cock on the diamond and savagely intent on thwarting the runners as well as to maintain his lead, the Spider spun round in a flash of time and half blindly leaping on the dirty horsehide stumbled, falling at full length face down as his hand closed over the coveted ball.