The fame of the mechanical pitcher who, with his steel fingers, could pitch a curve like a flesh and blood man, had spread afar in this land of golden grain. This was a slack period for wheat farmers. They began pouring in before noon.
“You have such a crowd as that there ball ground never saw before!” a tall, lanky lad in a ten gallon hat assured Goggles. You might believe this would stir up in the boy’s mind a feeling of joy. Instead, it made him feel shivery all over.
“We’ve got to be careful,” he said to Hop Horner. “Every crowd’s a mob. You can never tell what it’s going to do when things go sort of queer.”
“Everything’s going to be O.K.,” Hop said coolly.
The appointed hour arrived at last. Never had the boys from the quiet little city of Hillcrest seen such a crowd, and never had they looked upon such a sea of sun-tanned faces.
Irons O had been carried secretly to the grounds in a covered truck. Assembled within the shelter of the truck, he was then assisted with much ceremony and shouting to his place in the pitcher’s box. Solemnly the Hillcrest boys took their places in the field.
“The zero hour has arrived,” Goggles muttered to Hop. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Game! Game!” shouted a group of high school boys in a corner. “We want baseball! We want baseball!”
“Hey, Mister!” a small boy in the front row squeaked. “Make him spit fire, will ye?” Everyone laughed.
Only one person sat staring in silence. That was Doug Danby. Sitting alone in the bleachers, he had caught sight of a vaguely familiar face. At this moment he was staring at the person in open-mouthed astonishment. “How did he get there? How could he?” he was asking himself.