“Git th’ fust one, boy!” roared a voice from the crowd. “Show what y’ c’n do. Breeze him!”
The tall young man on the mound gave a shake of his head as he tossed back a lock of brown hair. His clean-cut face was a bit pale, and he seemed somewhat nervous, which was not strange, considering his apparent youth and the nature of the tumultuous, rough-and-ready crowd whose eyes were fastened upon him. He wore a glove on his right hand, and it was his cleat-tipped right shoe that touched the slab. Leaning forward, he nodded a bit as he caught the catcher’s signal, swinging immediately into his delivery.
“Ball!” bellowed the umpire, as the sphere went shooting over, high and wide, a white streak in the air.
“Aw-w, get ’em down!” brayed the coacher back of first, while the one on the opposite side of the diamond whooped derisively, and the batter, having flung a glance skyward, grinned in a taunting way. “He ain’t on stilts. He can’t reach ’em in the clouds,” added the coacher.
“Stiddy, boy,” gurgled Oulds, returning the ball. “Make him hit.”
That first wide one brought a mocking shout from the Bancroft bunch on the bleachers, and apparently Locke grew still more nervous, for his second pitch forced Harney to do a lively dodge to avoid being bored in the ribs.
“Ball tuh!”
“Wow-wow!” barked one coacher. “He’s wild as mountain scenery.”
“Take a ramble, Cap; he’ll walk ye,” cried the other coacher.