“Excuse me,” said Cope hastily. “I think I’ll git over by our bench, where I can watch Locke work. That’s him—that tall, slim chap goin’ inter the box now. Jest keep your eye on him. So long.”
He hurried away as the umpire called “play” and Bancroft’s first batter rose and trotted out from the bench.
CHAPTER V
A BAD BEGINNING
A yell rose from the crowd which now almost completely encircled the field. It was not a cheer, such as may sometimes be heard at the beginning of a Big League game; it was a sudden, sharp, nerve-shocking combination of bellow and shriek, primitive in its methodless manner of expressing joyous satisfaction and elation that the moment had arrived for the contest to begin. Thus may have a gathering of primordial mankind, assembled to witness some sort of sanguinary gladiatorial contest, voiced its fierce emotion at the sight of trained warriors charging upon one another in the arena.
This burst of sound died away in a few scattering whoops and yelps as the umpire, body protector adjusted, mask held ready, lifted his hand for silence.
“Game t’-day,” he shouted hoarsely, “Bancrof’ ag’inst Kingsbridge. Bat’ry f’r Kingsbridge, Locke ’n’ Oulds; bat’ry f’r Bancroft, Hoover ’n’ Bangs. Pla-a-ay ball-ll!”
“Ye-ee-ee!” shrieked the crowd, and then settled down to enjoy the struggle.
Bill Harney, clever sticker and captain of the Bancroft team, was ready at the plate. “Hunchy” Oulds, breastplated and masked, spat into the pocket of his catching mitt, rubbed the moisture about on the dented leather with his fingers, and then squatted behind the pan to signal. The umpire, celluloid recorder held behind his back, leaned forward on his toes to get a clear view over Oulds’ head. Tom Locke toed the slab.