His face was no longer pale; the color had returned to his cheeks, and a flickering smile played at the corners of his fine mouth.
Henry Cope, beaming, made room for the players on the bench. “I knowed it,” he said. “I tole ’em so.”
Having unemotionally watched the new pitcher approach, Manager Hutchinson spoke to Stark. “See if you can’t start something right away,” he directed. “Mebbe we’ll get ’em going if we score the first time up.”
Larry nodded, and whispered hastily to the leading batter, Labelle, a slim, shifty French Canadian, a heady single hitter, and an unusually fast man on the sacks. Labelle grinned, and found his bat.
Possibly the Bancroft manager was more disgusted than disappointed, as the sarcastic comments which he flung at his offending players seemed to indicate; but as yet he had not been aroused to apprehension concerning the ultimate outcome of the game, and he felt that, were the Kinks’ left-hander really formidable, it had well happened that his men had been forwarned thus early in the contest.
Having relieved his feelings by a flaying fling at Mace, as the final victim of Locke’s skill secured his fielding mitt from the bench, Riley cast aside the remnants of his cigar, lighted a fresh weed, and prepared to watch Jock Hoover make monkeys of the locals.
Janet Harting was overjoyed. “Oh, wasn’t that splendid!” she cried, impulsively squeezing her companion’s arm with one gloved hand. “It was such a surprise! I never expected it.”
“No more did any one, I fancy,” said King, laughing. “It’s the unexpected that so frequently happens which makes baseball the fascinating game it is. Apparently that fellow can pitch some, after all. I wonder where he came from.”
“Mr. Cope won’t tell, and nobody around here seems to know.”
“Somehow I have a feeling that I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him.”