A BAD BEGINNING
A yell rose from the crowd which now almost completely encircled the
field. It was not a cheer, such as may sometimes be heard at the
beginning of a Big League game; it was a sudden, sharp, nerve-shocking
combination of bellow and shriek, primitive in its methodless manner of
expressing joyous satisfaction and elation that the moment had arrived
for the contest to begin. Thus may have a gathering of primordial
mankind, assembled to witness some sort of sanguinary gladiatorial
contest, voiced its fierce emotion at the sight of trained warriors
charging upon one another in the arena.
This burst of sound died away in a few scattering whoops and yelps as
the umpire, body protector adjusted, mask held ready, lifted his hand
for silence.
“Game t’-day,” he shouted hoarsely, “Bancrof’ ag’inst Kingsbridge.
Bat’ry f’r Kingsbridge, Locke ’n’ Oulds; bat’ry f’r Bancroft, Hoover
’n’ Bangs. Pla-a-ay ball-ll!”
“Ye-ee-ee!” shrieked the crowd, and then settled down to enjoy the
struggle.
Bill Harney, clever sticker and captain of the Bancroft team, was ready
at the plate. “Hunchy” Oulds, breastplated and masked, spat into the
pocket of his catching mitt, rubbed the moisture about on the dented
leather with his fingers, and then squatted behind the pan to signal.
The umpire, celluloid recorder held behind his back, leaned forward on
his toes to get a clear view over Oulds’ head. Tom Locke toed the slab.
“Git th’ fust one, boy!” roared a voice from the crowd. “Show what y’
c’n do. Breeze him!”
The tall young man on the mound gave a shake of his head as he tossed
back a lock of brown hair. His clean-cut face was a bit pale, and
he seemed somewhat nervous, which was not strange, considering his
apparent youth and the nature of the tumultuous, rough-and-ready crowd
whose eyes were fastened upon him. He wore a glove on his right hand,
and it was his cleat-tipped right shoe that touched the slab. Leaning
forward, he nodded a bit as he caught the catcher’s signal, swinging
immediately into his delivery.
“Ball!” bellowed the umpire, as the sphere went shooting over, high and
wide, a white streak in the air.
“Aw-w, get ’em down!” brayed the coacher back of first, while the one
on the opposite side of the diamond whooped derisively, and the batter,
having flung a glance skyward, grinned in a taunting way. “He ain’t on
stilts. He can’t reach ’em in the clouds,” added the coacher.
“Stiddy, boy,” gurgled Oulds, returning the ball. “Make him hit.”
That first wide one brought a mocking shout from the Bancroft bunch on
the bleachers, and apparently Locke grew still more nervous, for his
second pitch forced Harney to do a lively dodge to avoid being bored in
the ribs.
“Ball tuh!”
“Wow-wow!” barked one coacher. “He’s wild as mountain scenery.”
“Take a ramble, Cap; he’ll walk ye,” cried the other coacher.
The Bancroft rooters scoffed again; the Kingsbridge crowd was anxiously
silent.
“Never mind that, kid,” soothed Oulds. “Take your time; don’t hurry.
Make him hit.”
The backstop returning the ball, Locke attempted to catch it with his
gloved hand, dropped it, turned hastily, struck it with his toe, and
sent it rolling toward second.
Larry Stark, covering that sack, sprang after the sphere, scooped it
up, and held it in both hands against his chest while stepping swiftly
toward the pitcher to speak a few low, reassuring words. Then he tossed
the ball, and danced back to his position.
There was no doubt about it now; plainly Locke was nervous. Seeing
this, the coachers and the visiting spectators did what they could to
rattle him. Even though he tried to steady himself, the next ball from
his fingers whiffed up a pop of dust two feet in front of the plate.
“Ball three!”
“The ascension begins early to-day,” laughed the coacher near third;
and the Bancrofters behind him began to sing: “Up in a Balloon, Boys.”
On the home bench, Manager Hutchinson leaned forward, his elbow on
his knee, his hand propping his chin, eyes narrowed and fixed on the
disturbed pitcher.
Standing behind the bench, Henry Cope removed his old straw hat to mop
his bald head and flushed face, trying all the while to preserve a calm
and confident smile.
The crowd in the stand and along the right side of the field stirred
restlessly. Murmurs were heard: “What’s the matter with him?” “Punk!”
“Rotten!” “He can’t find the plate!” “He’s no good!”
“Take your time, Locke,” begged Captain Stark. “Don’t hurry. Put it
straight over, and let him hit. We’re behind you.”
Harney, sneering, twiddled his bat and made a bluff of turning his back
to the plate. Although he did not turn, his indifferent pose spoke his
disdain and belief that he would receive a pass.
The assurance was justified. Seeking to get a grip on himself, Tom
Locke strove to whip over a straight one. Then――
“Take y’ur base!” croaked the umpire as the horsehide plunked into
Oulds’ reaching mitt.