Part 35 (1/2)
”Play ball!” the philanthropist yelled, and Kanef swung his arm in the regular approved style.
The next moment the ball flew from his hand and, describing an outcurve, grazed the tangent point of Eschenbach's waist-line into the outstretched palm of Max Croplin.
”Strike one!” Eschenbach shouted. ”You should please remember this is a sample play only, and 'tain't necessary you should send 'em so fast.”
Kanef nodded, while Croplin returned the ball; and this time Eschenbach poised himself to knock a heaven-kissing fly.
”Play ball!” he cried again, and once more Kanef executed a pirouette on the mound preparatory to pitching the ball. Simultaneously Eschenbach stepped back one pace and fanned the air just as the oncoming ball took a sudden drop. A moment later it landed squarely in the pit of his stomach, and with a smothered ”Woof!” he sank to the ground.
”Oo-ee!” wailed the hundred operators with one breath, while Birsky and Zapp ran wildly toward the home plate.
”Mr. Eschenbach,” Birsky exclaimed, ”_um Gottes willen!_ What did that loafer done to you?”
”It's all right,” Eschenbach gasped, struggling to his feet. ”I ain't hurted none, and in a regular game I would take my first base already.”
”Well, take it here,” Birsky said. ”Don't mind us, Mr. Eschenbach--or maybe you ain't got none _mit_ you.”
He put his hand to his hip-pocket and drew out a pocket flask, which Eschenbach, however, waved away.
”That's expressly something which a ballplayer must never got to touch during a game,” Eschenbach cried as he dusted off his trousers with his handkerchief and once more seized the bat. ”Now, then, Mr. Pitcher,” he cried, ”send me a real slow one straight over the plate.”
Birsky and Zapp returned to the edge of the lot, scowling savagely at Kanef, who was once more engaged in wiping his hands in the dust. This time, however, he executed no preliminary dance steps, and Eschenbach swung his bat to such good purpose that the ball went sailing between the first and second bases at the height of a short man's shoulder--or, to be exact, at the height of Jacob Golnik's right shoulder, from which it rebounded into the left eye of Joseph Bogin, the shop foreman.
Amid the scene of confusion that ensued only Jonas Eschenbach remained calm.
”As clean a hit as ever I see!” he cried proudly, and strolled off toward the excited mob that surrounded Golnik and Bogin, both of whom were shrieking with fright and pain.
”D'ye think they're hurted bad, Mr. Eschenbach?” Zapp inquired anxiously.
”_Schmooes_--hurt bad!” Eschenbach retorted. ”Why should a little thing like that hurt 'em bad?”
He was still intoxicated with the triumph of making what would have been a home run in a regular game, and his face bore a pleased smile as he turned to Birsky.
”I says to myself when I seen that ball coming,” he continued, ”I would put that right between first and second bases, about where that short and that big feller is standing--and that's exactly what happened.”
Birsky stared at his prospective customer in shocked surprise.
”Then you done it on purpose!” he exclaimed.
”Certainly I done it on purpose,” declared Eschenbach. ”What do you think it was--an accident?”
He swung his bat at a pebble that lay in his path and Birsky and Zapp edged away.
”Well, if I was you, Mr. Eschenbach,” Birsky said, ”I wouldn't say nothing more about it to n.o.body. Even if you would meant it as a joke, understand me, sometimes them things turns out serious.” With this dictum he elbowed his way through the sympathetic crowd that hemmed in the victims. ”_Koosh_, Golnik!” he bellowed. ”You might think you was injured for life the way you are carrying on.”
”Never mind, Mr. Birsky,” Golnik whimpered, ”I am hurted bad enough. If I would be able to handle a pair of shears in six weeks already I'm a lucky man.” He heaved a tremulous sigh and nodded his head slowly.
”Little did I think,” he wailed, ”when I fixed up this here mutual aid society that I would be the first one to get the sick benefit.”
Joseph Bogin ceased his agonizing rocking and turned fiercely to Golnik.