The train bore the defeated players back to a late supper in Kingsbridge, for up there supper was the evening meal. On the way, Jack Hinkey asked if any one had heard anything about Bancroft’s new pitcher, and the others confessed that they had not.
“Feller tole me t’-day,” said Hinkey, “that Riley had signed a new twirler who’d be run in agin’ us t’-morrer. An’ he’s a port-side flinger by the name of Craddock. Anybody ever hear of him?”
They confessed that they had not. Locke was the only man who did not answer. Sitting some seats ahead of the others and on the opposite side of the car, he was gazing glumly out at the whirling landscape, his face as dark as the purple shadows hovering at the base of a distant line of hills.
“Hey, Tom,” called Larry Stark, “did you get what Hink was telling us?”
Locke started, shook himself a bit, and turned.
“I was thinking just then,” he said. “What was it?”
They told him, and he acknowledged that he knew of no pitcher by the name of Craddock.
“They say he’s a hot article,” said Hinkey. “Feller that tole me ’bout him seemed to think we was goin’ to git up ag’inst the real thing t’-morrer.”
“What you tryin’ to do,” growled Sockamore, “frighten Lefty? Look at him. He’s fergot about Craddock a’ready.”