“You can’t let him hit!”
“Do it again!”
Hoover stamped his spikes into the ground, rooting himself, that the hit might be effective when he landed on the ball. He had felt of the first one; he would straighten the next one out. In fancy, he saw himself cantering over the sacks, with the runners ahead of him scoring, and the Bancrofters splitting their throats. Doubtless a two-bagger would score all three of the runners; and then, even if he did not reach the rubber himself, he would go out there and hold the “Kinks” runless in the last of the ninth. He knew he could do it.
“Ball-l-l!”
Jock sneered at Locke’s teaser. What a chump the fellow was to think he would reach for anything like that!
“Put one over!” he invited. “You don’t dare!”
It came—whistling, high, and taking an inward shoot. Hoover did not graze the horsehide.
“Strike tuh!”
That set the Kingsbridgers off again:
“Get him, Lefty—get him!”