Contrary to his usual practice, he sought the privilege of going on to the coaching line, where his sneers and slurs were of a nature that aroused protests from the crowd, and finally forced Riley to keep him on the bench when he was idle.
Locke opened the sixth by fanning Trollop, Grady, and Mace, one after another; and then, in the final half, he came first to bat for Kingsbridge.
“Get back off the pan, you peanut-headed sample of nature’s carelessness,” rasped Hoover, ready to pitch. “Get back, or I’ll take a rib outer yer!”
“I’m in my box,” returned Locke calmly. “Pitch the ball, sorehead.”
With a murderous expression, Hoover scorched one straight at his rival, and Tom barely escaped being hit by a most amazing, lightninglike dodge. This brought the Kingsbridge crowd up howling wrathfully, and Locke, recovering his position at the pan, cried loudly enough for Hoover to hear:
“Try it again, old boy—try it again, and they’ll be coming after you with war clubs and scalping knives.”
Captain Harney ran out and grabbed Hoover. “Keep your head, Jock—keep your head,” he begged. “He’s won the crowd. He’s got ’em with him. You’ll start a fight that’ll mean busted heads if you hit him on purpose.”
Already two constables, wearing their badges displayed, were having their hands full to keep back a few hot-headed ones, who seemed eager to charge upon the diamond to reach Hoover.