"Knock the cover off the ball."
"Slam out a homer!"
It was hard to realize that the lot only fifteen minutes before had been the scene of the greatest confusion. The spectators were now as orderly as active, wide-awake lads could be. All signs of ill-feeling seemed to have disappeared as entirely as though such a thing had never existed. Mr. Barry's warning had sunk in deep.
The "Hopes," satisfied at last that their chance would come if the regulars failed to make good, became so mild as to cause Benny Wilkins to make several entries in his note-book.
"They are just like little lambs," he observed. "Look at Aleck Parks with a sensible expression on his face." Then, catching sight of a very tall youth, he called: "Hello, John Hackett, hello! Have you any ten cent neckties in the shop? I've got to pay a bill for the afternoon's scrap. Swing at it, Brandon; swing at it! Bert Jeffords can't pitch, and never could pitch. Who discovered him?"
The twirler for the Rockvilles grinned good-naturedly. He had a variety of curves at his command, and good control. His next delivery was an unusually speedy ball.
Dave Brandon, however, had found his batting eye. As he struck with all his force at the inshoot the stick met the ball squarely, and a smoking hot liner whirled past the pitcher.
Jeffords' gloved hand shot toward it but missed. Even the Brown crowd joined in the roar of approval which rose from hundreds of throats.
"Oh, wasn't that a peach of a hit!" cried "Uncle" Steve, rising from his seat and almost dancing with excitement. "Root, professor, root!" he cried, bringing his hand down sharply on Instructor Ivins' shoulder. "Hooray—he's safe!"
The professor's dignified countenance flushed. He gingerly withdrew from such close proximity to the little man, at the same time eying him with a most peculiar expression.