The crowd had become strangely silent now. Every eye was glued upon the new pitcher, and of course anxiety made many a Columbia heart nervous, for Ralph was as yet an untried quantity against a regular team. Many had faith in him, or professed to have, though secretly even his boldest adherents found themselves wondering how he would act if those Bellport fellows ever began to bombard his curves as they had been known to do to more than one phenomenon in the past.
The lineup of the Bellport team was just the same as on the preceding Saturday, with the one exception of second base. Here the familiar figure of Cuthbert Lee was to be seen, and his cheery words gave confidence to his men.
The batting order of the visitors ran as follows:
Snodgrass—Right field.
Lee—Second base.
Banghardt—Center field.
Smith, Jr.—Left field.
Smith, Sr.—First base.
Lacy—Shortstop.
Bardwell—Third base.
Clay—Catcher.
Coddling—Pitcher.
As usual, Snodgrass could be depended upon to work the pitcher for a free ticket to the initial sack, if it was within the range of possibilities. He was a good waiter, and a fine judge of balls.
“Put ’em over for this beanery waiter!”
“Make him hit her out, West!”
“Don’t forget you’ve got eight other fellows back of you, boy!”
“Now, soak it to him, youngster. You know!”
Ralph suddenly shot the ball at the batter like a flash. It passed straight over the plate as though it cut the same in two equal parts.