CHAPTER XXI
THE YELLOW STREAK
“Believe me, fellows,” Bill Hagin said fervently, “that cub, Elgin, is some scrapper.”
There was a sniff of incredulity from the half dozen regulars gathered near the plate waiting their turn. They had heard before of these pugilistic prodigies, and were inclined to be doubtful.
“I’m from Missouri, Bill,” drawled Russell.
“Well, if you’d been up in my room last night, you’d been shown good and proper,” Hagin retorted. “Elgin put it all over One-round Nolan in the prettiest way you ever saw.”
At this announcement several of the men began to sit up and take notice; for Ed Nolan, the Hornet’s crack third baseman, was also renowned for his skill with the gloves.
“Quit your kidding, Bill,” admonished Red Pollock. “You can’t tell me no cub put it over Ed.”
“Truest thing you know,” averred the outfielder fervently. “Ask Monte Harris, or Dutch, if you don’t believe me. We was all talking downstairs about the match between Kid Baker and Young Glover in Memphis to-morrow, and Ross—he’s that punky cub fielder—says he’d back Elgin against any amateur in his class. Nolan picks up his ears, and, one word leading to another, we goes up to my room to call his bluff. Take it from me, there wasn’t any bluff about the kid, though. He’s got science and speed to burn, and the dandiest left hand wallop you ever saw. It sent Nolan sprawling in the third round as nice as could be, and Ed ain’t no slouch. I sure wish you all could have seen it.”
“Why in thunder didn’t you put us wise, then?” demanded Russell indignantly. “You’re a hot sketch, pulling off a scrap and letting nobody in.”