The audience shouted loudly, applaudingly, relieving their suspense. The men on bases strode away to their places, picking up their gloves and showing disappointment in every action. The cheering died away and the Blues went to bat. One run was needed to tie, but that one run looked very far away. Smith, the only one of the men left on bases who had appeared to accept the result philosophically—it was doubtless all in the day’s work to him—now pulled his glove on again, swept up the ball from the dirt and faced the batsman. Comparative silence reigned as the Lynton catcher crouched and laid fingers against mitt. Smith nodded imperceptibly and started his wind-up. And at that moment a polite inquiry came from the edge of the grandstand:
“Why did Shreveport let you go, Nick?”
There was a slight falter as the ball shot away, and a quick glance toward the stand as the umpire announced, “One ball!” A murmur of amusement arose from the audience. Again came the wind-up and again came the voice, clear and distinct across the diamond:
“Hard luck, Nick! Back to the bush, eh?”
Off went the ball and again the umpire disapproved, while the pitcher, squaring himself toward the stand, searched the faces there with curious gaze. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t look genuine. He failed to find the speaker, for, although many faces were turned toward a lower corner of the stand, Smith didn’t think to connect the remarks with the smartly-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man of thirty or so, who sat nonchalantly grasping a cane and a pair of grey gloves between his knees. The stand was laughing and exchanging inquiries. Further away the occupants were on foot, trying to get a glimpse of the speaker. “The chap down there in the derby, I think.” “No, the little man with the grey coat; smoking a pipe; see him?” “What did he say, anyhow?” “I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was that pitcher didn’t like it.” “Glad of it! He hasn’t any business playing ball with a lot of boys.”
Smith pitched again, and once more, although there had been no disturbing comment, he failed to put the ball over for a strike. Scurrying to their places, the Amesville coachers whooped and shouted. “Good eye, George! Wait for your base!” “You’ve got him now! Here’s where we start, fellows! Wow!”
Smith rubbed his hand in the dirt, settled the ball between his fingers and stepped forward.
“Strike—one!” called Mr. George. Lynton applauded.
Smith got the return and walked back toward his box, and as he went his gaze again sought the stand. Those who saw it laughed. The man with the grey gloves watched imperturbably. Smith got the signal, poised with upraised foot.
“What do you get for to-day, Nick?”