The first one was not over, and Fargo refused to go after it.
“Ba-a-ll!” drawled the umpire.
“He’ll put it over now,” thought Fargo, swinging his stick gently. He had ceased to think of Lefty as his friend; he was now simply the pitcher of the rival team.
He was mistaken, however. Though it seemed to be Locke’s intention to cut the pan, Fargo saw the ball break for a curve which would carry it just outside, and again he refrained from swinging.
“Two-oo!” said the umpire.
In the silence of the breathless crowd some one was heard to say:
“He’s afraid of him. He don’t dare let him hit it.”
These words did not reach the southpaw’s ears. The latter, however, had no intention of pitching himself into a hole if he could help it. He bent over a sizzler.
Fargo swung and missed, although he almost fancied that he felt the bat lightly touch the whistling ball. A murmur rose from the Blue Stockings’ rooters.