CHAPTER VII
HIMSELF AGAIN
Among the spectators, doubtless, the performance of Tom Locke gave no one keener disappointment and chagrin than that experienced by Janet Harting. She almost writhed, her fair forehead knotted and her rosy mouth puckering and pouting. Once she stood up, but the horses, possibly getting a glimpse of her parasol, started, and young King, quieting them, suggested that it would be best for her to remain on the seat.
“Oh, isn’t it just mean!” the girl cried, as Locke continued to search in vain for the pan. “Everybody expected him to do so much. Mr. Cope was so sure about him, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bent. “For the last few days the whole town has been talking about the wonderful new pitcher and what he would do.”
“It’s a shame! Why, he can’t pitch at all!”
“It doesn’t seem so, but perhaps he may steady down. I once saw a pitcher pass three men straight, and then strike out the next three without a break.”
“Oh, but this one never could do a thing like that. He can’t put even a straight one over; he hasn’t a bit of control.”
“You talk like a fan, Janet. Your father is such a crank—er, excuse me!—that he wouldn’t let you see the games last year. Where did you pick up your knowledge?”
“Boarding school. Some of us girls used to get to the college games on Saturday. I declare, I do believe he’s going to walk this batter, too! Why don’t they take him out and let some one pitch who knows how?”
“There’s Cope talking to the manager on the bench. The old man is stubborn, and I presume he’s set on giving the great pitcher he signed all the show possible. It hurts his pride to see the fellow fizzle this way.”