Elgin gritted his teeth and faced Jack Daly as he toed the scratch, bland and smiling. Men were yelling advice to the batter; others flinging taunts at the man on the mound. The tumult was increasing steadily. Fargo, catching a glimpse of Elgin’s face, dropped on one knee and deliberately adjusted his shoe-lace.
Daly let a wide one pass, and then banged out a grounder which, but for splendid fielding, would have been a hit. As it was, Dirk Nelson, forced from the initial sack, was put out at second by a hair. Daly reached first safely, and Eddie Lewis executed an impromptu jig on third.
By this time a perfect pandemonium had broken forth all over the stands. The visiting rooters, seeing hope for the first time, seemed trying to rattle the pitcher, while the fickle metropolitan fans howled at the unfortunate twirler they had been cheering so vociferously a short time before.
“Take him out! Take him out!” they bawled. “Russell! We—want—Cy!”
Amid this turmoil, Lefty Locke approached the pan, his heart pounding unevenly and his face glowing dully under the tan. So far he had shown little ability with the stick; nevertheless, the hopeful Blue Stockings’ adherents greeted him uproariously.
“Kill it, Locke!” was the stentorian cry. “Kill it, old boy!”
The sound of their voices thrilled the southpaw. Only an abnormally cold-blooded youngster would have felt no thrill. It exalted him and made him confident that he could hit anything Elgin ventured to whip over.
There was a momentary pause as Fargo hurried into the diamond and spoke a few reassuring words to the white-faced twirler.