Jock Hoover had been swinging two bats. He dropped one of them, and walked into the box, stooping a moment to rub his palms on the dry dirt. Never in his life had he desired half as much to get a hit, and never had he believed more firmly that he would get one.
“You’re the boy, Jock!” shrieked a rooter. “Bring ’em home! Win your own game, old fightin’ cock!”
From the opposite side came a different cry:
“He’s your meat, Lefty! Get him, and it’s all over! Don’t lose him, on your life!”
It was to be the great test. A clean hit would leave Hoover still supreme in the league; a strike-out would place another far above him. The lips of the Bully at bat curled back from his teeth, and he stood there ready, like a man made of steel springs. With a sort of placid grimness, Locke swung into his delivery.
Hoover fouled the first one into the bleachers.
“Strike!”
“That’s one on him!”
“You’ve got him coming, Lefty!”
“He can’t hit you!”