“Perhaps he’s some great college pitcher,” said the girl.
“I don’t know about that, but if he is I reckon he’s here under a fake name; for you know it makes college twirlers professionals to play for money. A man is barred if he’s ever caught at it. Just the same, some of them, needing the dough, take the risk. Up here in this league a man would stand a fair chance of getting by without being exposed.”
“It’s—it’s supposed to be dishonest, isn’t it?”
“Yes; but necessity has driven more than one good man to shut his eyes to that phase of the matter. If this Locke was known at all as a professional, some of the players of this league should recognize him.”
“I don’t like to think that he’s a college man who would do such a thing,” said Janet earnestly.
“Oh-ho!” cried Bent. “So you’re taking considerable interest in the chap you thought couldn’t pitch at all.”
“Well,” she faltered, “he—he looks clean and honest. One can see he isn’t like the others—the most of them, anyway. Kingsbridge is going to bat now. I hope they can do something.”
Hoover had shaken the kinks out of his arm by two or three throws to first, and, glancing round to make sure his backers were in position and ready, he stepped on to the slab and glowered at Labelle. Squatting, Bangs signaled, and the fire-eating twirler swung into his first delivery.
Although a “waiter,” with an excellent eye, Labelle seldom permitted himself to pass up the first one if it came over the rubber, and he sought to land on Hoover’s corner-cutting slant. The resulting foul counted against the batter as a strike.