Cap'n Wiley jogged down from third, an expression of injured reproof puckering his countenance. "I am pained to the apple core," he said. "My simple, trusting nature has received a severe shock. Just when I thought we had you meandering away from here, Lefty, you turned right round and came back. If you handed us that one lone tally to chirk us along, let me reassure you that you made the mistake of your young life; I am going to ascend the hillock and do some volleying, which makes it extensively probable that the run we have garnered will be sufficient to settle the game." "Don't be so unfeeling!" responded Locke. "Give us Mysterious Jones." "Oh, perchance you may be able to get on the sacks with me pushing 'em over; but if Jones unlimbered his artillery on you, he'd mow you down as fast as you toddled up to the pentagon. You see, I wish the assemblage to witness some slight semblance of a game." In action upon the slab, Wiley aroused still further merriment. His wind-up before delivering the ball was most bewildering. His writhing, squirming twists would have made a circus contortionist gasp. First he seemed to tie himself into knots, pressing the ball into the pit of his stomach like a person in excruciating anguish. On the swing back, he turned completely away from the batter, facing second base for a moment, at the same time poising himself on his right foot and pointing his left foot toward the zenith. Then he came forward and around, as if he would put the sphere over with the speed of a cannon ball--and handed up a little, slow bender. But he need not have troubled himself to put a curve on that first one, for Fred Hallett, leading off for the Grays, stood quite still and stared like a person hypnotized. The ball floated over, and the umpire called a strike, which led Hallett to shake himself and join in the laughter of the crowd. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" spluttered Wiley. "Was my speed too much for you? Couldn't you see it when it came across? Shall I pitch you a slow one?" Hallett shook his head, unable to reply. "Oh, vurry, vurry well," said the Marine Marvel. "As you choose. I don't want to be too hard on you." Then, after going through with a startling variation of the former convulsions, he did pitch a ball that was so speedy that the batsman swung too slowly. And, a few minutes later, completing the performance to his own satisfaction, he struck Hallett out with a neat little drop. "I preen myself," said he, "that I'm still there with the huckleberries. As a pitcher of class, I've got Matty and a few others backed up against the ropes. Bring on your next victim." Charlie Watson found the burlesque so amusing that he laughed all the way from the bench to the plate. The eccentric pitcher looked at him sympathetically. "When you get through shedding tears," he said, "I'll pitch to you. I hate to see a strong man weep."