The crowd in the stand and along the right side of the field stirred restlessly. Murmurs were heard: “What’s the matter with him?” “Punk!” “Rotten!” “He can’t find the plate!” “He’s no good!”
“Take your time, Locke,” begged Captain Stark. “Don’t hurry. Put it straight over, and let him hit. We’re behind you.”
Harney, sneering, twiddled his bat and made a bluff of turning his back to the plate. Although he did not turn, his indifferent pose spoke his disdain and belief that he would receive a pass.
The assurance was justified. Seeking to get a grip on himself, Tom Locke strove to whip over a straight one. Then—
“Take y’ur base!” croaked the umpire as the horsehide plunked into Oulds’ reaching mitt.
CHAPTER VI
“TAKE HIM OUT!”
Flinging his club toward the bench, Harney jogged lazily down the line, grinning into the faces of the dissatisfied and sullen Kingsbridgers on the bleachers. The chortling coacher hailed him hilariously:
“Too bad! Too bad! That pudding is scared stiff. He won’t last an innin’. Back to the pastures for him.”
The murmurs of the home crowd became louder: “Who ever heard of him, anyhow?” “He can’t pitch!” “Who picked him up?” “He’s Hen Cope’s find.” “What’s old Cope know about baseball?” “That dub never saw a real game before.”