"Oh, you Lefty!" said he. "We gotta your number." "Put your marlinespike against the pill and crack the coating on it," urged Wiley. George Sommers, catcher for the Grays, adjusted his mask, crouched, signaled. Locke whipped one over the inside corner, and Nuccio fouled. "Nicked it!" cried the Marine Marvel. "Now bust it on the figurehead and make for the first mooring. Show our highly steamed friend Lefty that he's got to pitch to-day if he don't want the wind taken out of his sails." The southpaw tried to lead Nuccio into reaching, but the batter caught himself in his swing. "Puta the ball over, Left," he pleaded. "Don't givea me the walk." The pitcher smiled and handed up a hopper. The batter fouled again, lifting the ball on to the top of the covered seats. "I don't think you need worry about walking," said Sommers, returning after having made a vain start in pursuit of the sphere. "You're in a hole already." Nuccio smiled. "Wait," he advised. "I spoil the gooda ones." Another ball followed, then Lefty warped one across the comer. Nuccio drove it into right for a pretty single, bringing shouts of approval from the bench of the Wind Jammers. Wiley addressed Locke. "Really," he said, "I fear me much that you undervalue the batting capacity of my players. One and all, individually and collectively, they are there with the healthy bingle. Please, I beg of you, don't let them pound you off the slab in the first inning, for that would puncture a hard-earned reputation and bring tears of regret to my tender eyes. For fear that you may be careless or disdainful, I warn you that this next man can't touch anything down around his knees; his arms being attached to his shoulders at such a dim and distant altitude, he finds it difficult to reach down so far, even with the longest bat." Luther Bemis, the player referred to, was the marvelously tall and lanky center fielder of the Wind Jammers. He had a queer halting walk, like a person on stilts, and his appearance was so ludicrous that the spectators tittered and laughed outright. Their amusement did not disturb him, for he grinned cheerfully as he squared away, waving his long bat. "Don't you pay no 'tention to the cap 'n, Lefty," he drawled, in a nasal voice. "I can hit um acrost the knees jest as well as anywhere else. He's tryin' to fool ye." "Let's see about that," said Locke, putting one over low and close on the inside. Bemis smashed out a hot grounder and went galloping to first with tremendous, ground-covering strides. For all of his awkward walk and the fact that he ran like a frightened giraffe, it would have required an excellent sprinter to beat him from the plate to the initial sack. Norris, the shortstop, got his hand on the ball and stopped it, but it twisted out of his fingers. It was an error on a hard chance, for by the time he secured the sphere there was no prospect of getting either runner.