“We’ve got him going,” the manager of the Hornets muttered jubilantly. “Ken’ll have to yank him sudden. I reckon he’ll have more faith in my judgment after this.”
When Nolan, his left fielder, presently sent a foul back of first and was put out by Grant’s wonderful sprinting and equally amazing catch, Brennan’s conviction was in no wise altered. This was pure luck, helped on by the skill of the first baseman, and reflected no credit on Locke.
Buck Fargo was advancing to the plate, too, which boded well for the Hornets.
“You know what to do, Buck,” the manager said, in a low tone, as the backstop passed him. “We’ve got this green portsider on the run already.”
It was a curious situation. The two men facing each other were friends. Fargo’s sympathy for the young pitcher was such that he wanted him to make good almost more than he desired a victory for his own team. The big backstop could help very materially, if he wished, without any risk to himself; and he realized that this was a crucial moment in the inning when a hit might mean a run, while an out would go far toward killing the Hornet’s chances for scoring.
To his honor, he walked to the pan with the fixed determination to forget that Lefty was pitching, and to give his manager the very best that was in him.
And now Locke realized that the thing which had hitherto been in his favor was going to work the other way. If he knew intimately the likes and dislikes, the batting strength and weakness of each member of the opposing team, the man who faced him now was in a position to know quite as much, or more, about himself.
Lefty’s face was a shade less brown as he toed the rubber, but his nerves were quite steady, his courage unabated. He would do his best; no man could do more.
The cheering and comments in the stands had ceased. Even the murmur of voices died away as the spectators bent forward in breathless suspense.