They were Kingsbridge fans, who had come down to the city to root for their baseball team, and to back it up, if necessary, should a disturbance start upon the field; and, to the last horny-handed husky, they looked like fellows who would as soon fight as eat; one might have fancied, even, that not a few of them were the sort who would leave a meal any day to take a hand in a healthy, head-cracking scrap.
At any rate, their appearance had been sufficient to serve notice of the cause which had brought them thirty miles by rail on this mid-week day to sit in a bunch on the Bancroft bleachers while the game was in progress.
After the affair in Kingsbridge, which ended with the whipping of Hoover, there had been rumors that the resentful Bancrofters would do things to Locke when he appeared in the city down the river, which had brought out this picked band of Lefty’s admirers with the openly proclaimed intention of being concerned in such “doings” as might come off.
The game was over, the Kinks had won again, and there had been no riot. Up to the seventh, it had been another pretty struggle between Locke and Hoover, but when the first Kingsbridger opened that fatal inning with a stinging two-sacker, the local pitcher went up in the air for the first time in the Northern League, being bumped for three earned runs before Manager Riley brought himself to send in a substitute. The game had terminated with the score seven to three in Kingsbridge’s favor. Hence the demonstration of the rejoicing visitors, as they marched down through town to take the homeward-bound train.
Mike Riley, chewing at his inevitable cigar, stood on a corner, and sullenly watched the parade. After the game, he had not lingered to say anything to his players, for he knew that his mood would lead him into remarks not at all soothing or flattering, and mere talk could not remedy what had happened.
Some one grabbed Riley by the elbow, and he looked round, to see Fancy Dyke, accompanied by Rufus Kilgore, a lawyer, who was one of the backers of the Bancroft team. Dyke’s thin lips were pressed together, the corners being pulled down into something half sneer, half snarl. The lawyer looked disturbed.
“What’re you doing?” asked Fancy. “Standin’ here to give them howlin’ muckers a chance to see how bad you feel? Where’s the police, anyhow? They oughter pinch that whole bunch for disturbin’ the peace.”
“It would take the whole police force of the city to arrest a single man of them and land him in the caboose,” said Kilgore. “Kingsbridge didn’t send down a hundred fighting men to see any one of them pinched because he was celebrating a victory over us.”
“We was lookin’ for you, Riley,” said Dyke. “Come on over to Kilgore’s office.”