And now, as if he, too, felt the strain of it, and the tension was too much, Tom Locke handed up four balls, and filled the sacks.
“It’s the same old story!” shouted Harney from the coaching line. “They’ve gone to pieces again! We’ve got ’em! We’ve got ’em! We win it right here! Old southpaw is making an altitude record! He’s gone! He’s up out of sight now! He’ll never come down! Kill it, Bingo, if he puts one across!”
Kingsbridge was apprehensively silent, taut, and choked with dread; Bancroft howled and screamed like a lot of caged Camorrists. Bangs gripped his club, longing for a two-bagger, or even a long, clean single. Locke took his time, absolutely declining to betray signs of agitation similar to those which had marked his advent upon that field.
“You’ve got to do it, Lefty!” came entreatingly from the man who had shouted before. “If you fail us now, there’ll be a fun’rul after the game.”
Locke whipped over a high one.
“Strike!” blared the umpire.
Before Bangs had finished kicking at the decision, the pitcher bent over another.
“Strike tuh!”
“Get against it, Bingo—get against it!” yelled Harney. “Spoil the good ones, anyhow.”
Two balls followed. Then came a marvelous drop that Bangs missed by many inches, and Kingsbridge roared, drowning the Bancroft groan.