“Oh, let him hit,” begged the center fielder. “He won’t get it out of the diamond.”
Again, and once again, the Canadian fouled; and then Hoover caught him with a deceptive slant for another clean miss, and Labelle retired, disappointed.
Stark came next, and, like the leading sticker, his best efforts resulted only in weak fouls, the Bully on the slab finally sending him back to the bench by the whiff route, to the loud acclaim of the admiring Bancrofters on the bleachers.
“They’ll never locate you to-day, Jock,” shouted one of these. “Show up their southpaw wizard. Make a record.”
Reddy Crandall proved to be quite as easy as his predecessors, and Hoover finished his first turn with the third straight strike-out, not even seeming to hear the wild applause of his admirers as he sauntered, sour and unsmiling, to the bench.
More than one of those admirers, even while fulsome with praise, had sometimes felt a strong desire to kick the ungrateful, egotistical, pugnacious star slabman of the champions, who, among his browbeating teammates, even, was not much courted for his society off the field.
Riley, the only person who never praised or flattered him, had discovered some secret process of holding him in check and making him of inestimable value to the team.
“Now, you fellers,” growled the Bancroft manager, speaking with the cigar between his teeth, “I want ye t’ go after this left-handed dub, and chaw him up. Put the willer to him, and break his heart. You had him almost out when you slipped a cog t’other time. Git to first, McGovern, and th’ boys will push ye round.”
“I’ll make the sack somehow,” promised McGovern, as he started out with his big bat, conquest in his heart.
Exactly thirty-two seconds later Pat McGovern came back to the bench, fanned, having found his left-handed position at the plate most disadvantageous in batting against the Kinks’ southpaw. Riley was growling throatily as Otto Bernsteine went forth to pit his wits and skill against the brains and cleverness of Tom Locke.