“Well,” said the grocer, “what did old Riley have t’ say? Tried ter browbeat ye, didn’t he?”
“Oh,” said Hutchinson, “he reasserted his claim to Hazelton, and said we’d surely lose this game out of the count if we persisted in pitching the man. You can see, Cope, that it’s no bluff; the meeting is called for to-morrow night. I’ve got Ringling, a new pitcher, here, and he’s clever. Don’t you think we’d better use him?”
“I notified you,” said the grocer irritably, “that Locke would pitch this game, and he’ll pitch it. Put him in.”
“All right,” growled Hutchinson, in exasperation, “have your own way.” As he sat down on the bench, he added to himself: “You pig-headed old fool!”
So it was Locke who went on the slab when the umpire called “play,” and Bancroft promptly sent Harney jogging forth to the pan with his pet bat on his shoulder. Tom was given a rousing cheer by his admirers.
“You know what to do to ’em, Lefty,” yelled a man on the bleachers. “You’re the boy fer us. We’re backin’ you.”
Harney drove his spikes into the dry ground and squared himself, his bat held high and ready. His posture was that of a man who welcomed speed, and rather preferred that the ball should be up around his shoulders; therefore, Locke opened with one across his knees on the inside corner. True, Harney hit it promptly, but he only batted a weak grounder into the diamond, and Labelle, grabbing it quickly, whipped him out at first by a wide margin.
“Just as easy as ever!” whooped a delighted Kingsbridger. “Pick off the next one, Tommy, old top.”
Trollop held his bat low, so Locke kept the ball high and close, causing it to jump, and the Bancroft center fielder slashed at three without making even a foul.
“Some pitchin’, Lefty, some pitchin’!” was the cry.