Then, without the slightest warning, using no wind-up whatever, he snapped one straight over, catching Watson unprepared. That sobered Watson down considerably. "I'm glad to see you feeling better," declared the manager of the Wind Jammers. "Now that you're quite prepared, I'll give you something easy." The slow one that he tossed up seemed to hang in the air with the stitches showing. Watson hit it and popped a little fly into Wiley's hands, the latter not being compelled to move out of his tracks. He removed his cap and bowed his thanks. Doc Tremain walked out seriously enough, apparently not at all amused by the horseplay that was taking place. With his hands on his hips, Wiley stared hard at Tremain. "Here's a jolly soul!" cried the pitcher. "He's simply laughing himself sick. I love to see a man enjoy himself so diabolically." "Oh, play ball!" the doctor retorted tartly. "This crowd isn't here to see monkeyshines." "Then they won't look at you, my happy friend. And that's a dart of subtle repartee." Wiley's remarkable wind-up and delivery did not seem to bother Tremain, who viciously smashed the first ball pitched to him. It was a savage line drive slightly to the left of the slabman, but the latter shot out his gloved hand with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed the whistling sphere. Having made the catch, the Marine Marvel tossed the ball carelessly to the ground and sauntered toward the bench with an air of bored lassitude. There was a ripple of applause. "You got off easy that time, cap'n," said Locke, coming out. "When are you going to let us have a crack at Jones?" "A crack at him!" retorted Wiley. "Don't make me titter, Lefty! Your assemblage of would-bes never could get anything remotely related to a crack off Jones. However, when ongwee begins to creep over me I'll let him go in and polish you off." "Colonel" Rickey, leading off for the Wind Jammers in the second, hoisted an infield fly, and expressed his annoyance in a choice Southern drawl as he went back to the bench. Peter Plum, the fat right fielder, followed, poling out an infield drive which, to the amazement of the crowd, he nearly turned into a safety by the most surprising dash to first. Impossible though it seemed, the chunky, short-legged fellow could run like a deer, and when he was cut down by little more than a yard at the hassock he vehemently protested that it was robbery. Locke was taking it easy now; he almost seemed to invite a situation that would again put his arm to the test. There was a queer feeling in his shoulder, a feeling he did not like, and he wondered if he could "tighten" in repeated pinches, as he had so frequently done when facing the best batters in the business. But, though he grooved one to Schaeffer, the catcher boosted an easy fly to Watson in left field.