The man put his tongue in his cheek. “Mmm,” he said. He was thirty, a chunky man about five feet ten in height, who looked as if he could tear telephone directories to shreds.
“Play ball!” someone yelled.
Dorothy wound up the softball, pitched it underhanded in the direction of home plate. It missed by about twelve feet. She pitched the ball three times more and Iowa Lee gestured toward first base. The batter, a man of fifty or so, came trotting toward first base, which was a block of wood.
The next player, a woman, actually hit the ball. It bobbled toward second base, bumped against Ruth Higgins’ shins and rolled off toward first base. Peel rushed out, got the ball, but was too late to put out the batter. He threw the ball to Ruth, who missed it and both players advanced on the bases.
“Boy, oh, boy!” chuckled the umpire. “What is this, the old folks’ home having a picnic?”
Peel gave him a dirty look. “It’s the Iowa Lee Lonely Hearts Club.”
“Lonely hearts? These old bags!” Then the umpire looked toward home plate. “But I could go for the dish behind home plate.”
“She’s mine,” retorted Peel.
“Oh, yeah?”
The third player was walked on four pitched balls and the bases were loaded. Joe Peel looked at the man on first base. “Take a good lead off,” he suggested. “I see a hit coming.”
The baseman obediently took a twenty-foot lead toward second base and Peel suddenly waved to the pitcher. “Let’s have it!”
Dorothy threw the ball, missing first base by twenty feet. Peel had to chase the ball more than fifty feet. When he got it the player on third base had gone home, the second base player was wobbling toward third, but the player on first, with the big lead-off, was standing, uncertain as to what to do, between first and second base.
Peel threw the ball directly at Ruth Higgins. It hit her outstretched hands, bounced over her head and went out toward center field.
When the ball was finally retrieved, the bases were cleared, the umpires having allowed the base runner to “steal” home from first base.
Then Dorothy, surprisingly, struck out the next two batters. Her throws were all wild, but the batters foolishly swung on them.
The next player stepped up to the plate. He was an enormously fat man. Peel looked at him and shook his head. It was Mortimer Brown, the rabbit raiser of Sherman Way, who had been a victim of the badger game.
Dorothy pitched. Brown swung and the ball wobbled toward first base. Peel ran forward, scooped up the ball and waited for Brown to come toward him. He tagged him with the ball.
“Thought you were through with the Lonely Hearts?” Peel exclaimed.
Brown grimaced. “What’re you doing here?”
“Playing first and you’re out.”
“Think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Nope,” said Peel. “Just curious. Thought you’d learned your lesson.”
“A man’s got to have some fun. Can’t be with rabbits all the time.”
“Mmm,” said Peel.
Brown waddled away from him, toward third base, which position he was apparently going to play for his team.
As captain, Dorothy elected to be the first at bat. She was walked by the pitcher, the captain of the opposing team, who pitched as badly as did Dorothy.
Ruth Higgins grabbed up a bat and took her turn at the plate. She was struck by a pitched ball and went to first, advancing Dorothy to second.
Peel caught up the bat, but it was snatched from his hand by a woman in her forties, who weighed about one eighty, although she stood only about five feet two in high-heeled shoes. She took a mighty swing at the first pitched ball, hit it and the ball flew at the pitcher and struck him in the face. By the time he recovered and picked up the ball the plump batter had wobbled to first base.
And no one disputed Peel’s possession of the bat.
The pitcher tossed the ball and it struck the earth ten feet in front of Peel. It bounced and Peel, letting the bail go, realized he should have struck at it on the bounce.
“Str-ike!” called out Iowa Lee.
Peel turned. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“The ball hit the ground ten feet in front of me.”
“The bounce was right across the plate.”
“You can’t call a bouncing ball a strike.”
“Who says I cant? I’m the umpire.”
The pitcher, with Peel’s back turned to him, threw the ball. It grazed Peel’s ankle on the second bounce.
“Strike two!” cried Iowa Lee.
“What the hell!” howled Peel.
“Mr. Peel,” Iowa Lee said severely, “profanity is one thing this club does not permit. Our members are ladies and gentlemen, at all times.”
“Since when is ‘hell’ profanity?” demanded Peel.
“Use that word once more and I’ll expel you from the club.”
Peel glowered at her, then turned back to face the pitcher — just in time, for that worthy was attempting to sneak a third strike past Peel. Peel swung at the bouncing ball and connected. It flew over the first baseman’s head, bounced toward a clump of trees beyond.
Peel ran toward first base, intending to round it to second. He found the base umpire blocking him.
“No, you don’t!” he said. “Rule of the game is you got to find the ball if you knock it into the woods.”
“Cut it out!” snarled Peel. He tried to duck past the man, but the umpire ducked with him.
“Find it or I call you out!”
Peel stopped. The umpire reached into his pocket, showed Peel the butt of a revolver. “And by out, I mean this,” he said.
“Be damned.”
The umpire pointed toward the little grove. “The ball!”
The first baseman stood watching Peel and the umpire, making no move to search for the ball. Muttering under his breath, Peel trotted toward the woods, the umpire following closely.
Peel entered the woods and the gun-toting umpire closed in on him. “Never mind the damn ball,” he said. “Keep moving.” He brought out his revolver and gestured with it. Peel continued on through the woods, the gun-toter crowding him. “Faster!” Peel started running. He broke out of the woods, found that he was heading toward the road where the cars were parked.
Off to the right, the ball game had come to a halt. The players were evidently waiting for him and the umpire to find the ball. No one seemed to have seen them come out of the woods. No on, but the third-base umpire who was also trotting toward the road.
They reached the green Ford. “In you go!” cried the gunman.
The taxicab driver, seeing the second umpire run past him, craned his neck and saw Peel climbing into the green Ford. He piled out of his car.
“Hey, you told me to wait!” he yelled.
The second umpire pounded up to the green Ford, piled into the rear compartment beside Peel, also producing a gun. The first man was already starting the motor in front The cabdriver bounced up.
“You told me to wait!” he howled.
“Sucker!” sneered Joe Peel.
“Get moving, Willie,” snapped the man beside Peel. The motor came to life, the car made a quick U-turn in the narrow road and bounced off. It turned into the secondary paved road beyond the hill.
Willie, the driver of the car, shot a look over his shoulder. “Wonder if they found the ball?”
The man beside Peel, who was even bigger than Willie, chuckled. “The fellas’ll never believe this.”
“You mean the boys up at San Quentin?” asked Peel.
The man beside him gave him a dirty look. “A wise guy, huh?”
“Just a dumb cluck,” replied Peel in disgust. “I should have known when Temple was in no hurry to leave the Denmark that he had somebody ready to pick me up.”
“Temple? Who’s Temple?”
“The lad who hired you boys for this caper.”