“The umpire says that the time is almost up; but on account of your coming late he will postpone calling the game ten minutes. Now, do your prettiest, Ralph. I hope you get that trick ball working handily this afternoon,” returned the other, who was plainly more or less nervous.
“I’m feeling in fine shape, Captain. If they knock me hard it will be because I’m out of my class, I expect,” was the confident rejoinder he received.
For fully ten minutes then the young pitcher was the center of observation. Friends and foes alike commented upon his style of delivery. When he sent in an extra swift one a murmur of admiration bubbled forth.
“I guess he’s the right sort,” called the sanguine Columbia adherent.
“If only he don’t lose his head when those hard hitters begin to reach his ball a little. They’ve sent more than one horse to the stable to be blanketed,” declared another, less confident.
Many secretly sighed because Frank Allen was temporarily out of the game.
“Hope he’ll be all right by next Saturday, then. We can afford to lose this game, boys. It’ll only square things, and make it all the more interesting,” cried still another skeptic.
“Give the boy a chance, will you?” demanded a man near by; “you talk like he’s thrown this game away already. I tell you he shows up well, and perhaps some of you croakers will get a surprise yet!”
“That’s the talk; encourage the boy!” called another spectator.
“He needs it all right,” jeered a Bellport rough; “why, what our fellows will do to that kid will be a shame. It’s like takin’ candy from the baby, that’s what!”