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Any baseball player knows how it hurts to be hit on the shinbone. McCall waved his bat madly. "Rube! Rube! Rube!" he yelled. Then and there Hurtle got the name that was to cling to him all his baseball days. McCall went back to the plate, red in the face, mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every time Rube pitched a ball. He never even ticked one and retired in disgust, limping and swearing.
Gillinger went forward in a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up his broad hands. He misjudged the ball, and it hit him fairly on the head and bounced almost to where Doran stood at second. Our big captain wilted. Time was called. But Gillinger, when he came to, refused to leave the game and went back to third with a lump on his head as large as a goose egg.
Mister Fitz was holding a lantern, and Mister Lynch had his hands free for business. He met Blackie's egress with a careless jab of his fist that up-ended the unfortunate stiff, and the injunction, "Hearty, now, you swabs! Lay aft!" I quickly sidestepped out of the second mate's range, in case he should aim a blow at me, and started to obey the command to lay aft.
But instead of backing away as the canvasman's fist barely grazed his cheek, Phil, with a short arm jolt, caught his adversary on the point of his chin. Larry instantly lost all desire for fight. He sat down on the hard ground with a bump. Now Bad Eye rushed in. Again Phil sidestepped, and, thrusting a foot between the fellow's legs, tripped him neatly.
Racey felt that if he held his tongue another second he would incontinently burst. He sidestepped past the girl. "You've said yore li'l piece," he told Lanpher, "and for a feller who was bellyaching so loud about keeping out of this deal it strikes me yo're a-getting in good and deep buying up mortgages and all. Dunno what I mean, huh? Yep, you do. Shore you do. Think back.
"What do you want, Boris?" The Russian's answer to Gregory's question came in a guttural snarl as he staggered from the sage and flung himself upon the speaker. Gregory leaped nimbly beyond reach of the Russian's waving arms and placed his back to the moonlight. Meeting the fisherman's blind rush with a quick blow to his heavy jaw, he sidestepped and struck again.
But at the narrowing something in his eyes she sidestepped him, stooping down at the door of her bathhouse for a last scoop of sand at him. "No," she cried, her hair blown like spray and the same breeze carrying her laughter, guiltless of mood, out to sea. On the way home, though, for the merest second, there recurred the puzzling quirk in her thoughtlessness.
They were larger than he, heavy, muscle-bound giants of great strength, but he was far more active on his feet. He jabbed and sidestepped and retreated. More than once their heavy blows crashed home on his face. His eyes dared not wander from them for an instant, but he was working toward a definite plan. As he moved, his feet were searching for the automatic he had dropped.
Bart sought to engage one of them, but was caught up in a mass of combatants and Frank was left to meet the onset alone. Quick as a cat, he sidestepped one of them, and putting out his foot tripped him as he plunged past. He went down with a crash, and his rifle flew from his hands.
She sidestepped them, hurrying down a wind-swept brick walk and out a picket gate that did not swing entirely after. Behind her, the house with its wimple of shingle roof and unlighted front windows seemed to recede somewhere darkly. She stood an undecided moment, her face into the wind. Half down the block an arc-light swayed and gave out a moving circle of light.
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