ould learn of it,
let alone appeal to the umpire.

"Fellars, look at that guy who's goin' to pitch," suddenly spoke up one
of the team.

Many as were the country players whom we seasoned and traveled
professionals had run across, this twirler outclassed them for
remarkable appearance. Moreover, what put an entirely different tinge
to our momentary humor was the discovery that he was as wild as a March
hare and could throw a ball so fast that it resembled a pea shot from a
boy's air gun.

Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the first pitched ball, which
he did not see, and the second, which ticked his shirt as it shot past,
he turned to us with an expression that made us groan inwardly.

When Deerfoot looked that way it meant the pitcher was dangerous.
Deerfoot made no effort to swing at the next ball, and was promptly
called out on strikes.

I was second at bat, and went up with some reluctance. I happened to
be leading the league in both long distance and safe hitting, and I
doted on speed. But having stopped many mean in-shoots with various
parts of my anatomy, I was rather squeamish about facing backwoods yaps
who had no control.

When I had watched a couple of his pitches, which the umpire called
strikes, I gave him credit for as much speed as Rusie. These balls
were as straight as a string, singularly without curve, jump, or
variation of any kind. I lined the next one so hard at the shortstop
that it cracked like a pistol as it struck his hands and whirled him
half off his feet. Still he hung to the ball and gave opportunity for
the first crash of applause.

"Boys, he's a trifle wild," I said to my team-mates, "but he has the
most beautiful ball to hit you ever saw. I don't believe he uses a
curve, and when we once time that speed we'll kill it."

Next inning, after old man Hathaway had baffled the Canadians with his
wide, tantalizing curves, my predictions began to be verified. Snead
rapped one high and far to deep right field. To our infinite surprise,
however, the right fielder ran with fleetness that made our own
Deerfoot seem slow, and he got under the ball and caught it.

Doran sent a sizzling grasscutter down toward left. The lanky third
baseman darted over, dived down, and, coming up with the ball,
exhibited the power of a throwing arm that made as all green with envy.

Then, when the catcher chased a foul fly somewhere back in the crowd
and caught it, we began to take notice.