ON THE RAW EDGE
Two balls followed swiftly, the batter ignoring them both, although
with every nerve taut.
“Got to put ’em over, Jocko,” called the coacher. “You can’t pull that
little Canuck.”
Hoover handed up a “spitter,” and Labelle missed cleanly.
“He never could touch you,” chuckled the first baseman.
“You’ve got his measure,” declared the shortstop.
“Give him another in the same place,” urged the guardian of third.
“Oh, let him hit,” begged the center fielder. “He won’t get it out of
the diamond.”
Again, and once again, the Canadian fouled; and then Hoover caught him
with a deceptive slant for another clean miss, and Labelle retired,
disappointed.
Stark came next, and, like the leading sticker, his best efforts
resulted only in weak fouls, the Bully on the slab finally sending
him back to the bench by the whiff route, to the loud acclaim of the
admiring Bancrofters on the bleachers.
“They’ll never locate you to-day, Jock,” shouted one of these. “Show up
their southpaw wizard. Make a record.”
Reddy Crandall proved to be quite as easy as his predecessors, and
Hoover finished his first turn with the third straight strike-out, not
even seeming to hear the wild applause of his admirers as he sauntered,
sour and unsmiling, to the bench.
More than one of those admirers, even while fulsome with praise, had
sometimes felt a strong desire to kick the ungrateful, egotistical,
pugnacious star slabman of the champions, who, among his browbeating
teammates, even, was not much courted for his society off the field.
Riley, the only person who never praised or flattered him, had
discovered some secret process of holding him in check and making him
of inestimable value to the team.
“Now, you fellers,” growled the Bancroft manager, speaking with the
cigar between his teeth, “I want ye t’ go after this left-handed dub,
and chaw him up. Put the willer to him, and break his heart. You had
him almost out when you slipped a cog t’other time. Git to first,
McGovern, and th’ boys will push ye round.”
“I’ll make the sack somehow,” promised McGovern, as he started out with
his big bat, conquest in his heart.
Exactly thirty-two seconds later Pat McGovern came back to the bench,
fanned, having found his left-handed position at the plate most
disadvantageous in batting against the Kinks’ southpaw. Riley was
growling throatily as Otto Bernsteine went forth to pit his wits and
skill against the brains and cleverness of Tom Locke.
To tell the truth, Bernsteine, although usually phlegmatic and
unemotional, was worried; for he, also, hit left-handed, and he had
begun to believe that the Kingsbridge twirler was a terror to batters
who stood at the plate in that manner. His worriment was justified;
Locke got him, also.
The uproar of the crowd drowned the remarks of one Michael Riley,
manager of the Bancrofts; and this may have spared the nerves of any
sensitive person in his immediate vicinity. “Hey, Lisotte,” he snarled
at the shortstop, who was the next in line, “bunt the ball. D’ye hear?
Bunt, an’ try to beat it out. You bat wrong, too, and ye can’t hit him
fair. He’s got the Injun sign on you off-side sluggers.”
Lisotte did his best, but the first ball he bunted rolled foul, and the
next he tried for, being close and high, was missed completely. Fearing
to try another bunt, he finally swung after one that came slanting
over, and missed that also.
The best stickers of the Bullies had faced Locke in two innings, and
not one had obtained as much as a scratch single off him; realizing
which, the local crowd had spasms of many sorts. With faith completely
restored, the Kingsbridgers were telling one another exultantly that,
at last, the man had been found to hold the hated enemy in check.
Visions of the Northern League pennant waving over their grand stand at
the finish of the season already danced before their eyes.
The Bancrofters, although saying that the game was young, and pretending
their confidence was as great as ever, were really suffering the qualms
of apprehension, all the more intense and disturbing because of the
early elation they had felt.
When Kingsbridge’s Italian right fielder, Tony Anastace, opened the
second for the locals with a clean safety, this rejoicing on one side
and apprehension on the other was redoubled.
But Jack Hinkey popped to the infield, Anastace was slaughtered trying
to purloin second, and Fred Lace lifted a high foul back of third for
Wop Grady to smother, squaring things up with not a count for either
side.
Although Locke, feeling that he had the confidence of his teammates
at last, seemed to take it easier, a measly scratch single was all
Bancroft could find him for in the third; and, with Hoover hitting a
two-minute clip in the last of the same inning, even the least astute
spectator understood that it was practically certain to be a pitchers’
battle right through to the finish.
With the passing of the innings, and the failure of his teammates to
score, Hoover steadily became more savage in the box. At times, under
cover of the shouting of the crowd, he insulted the batters with
venomous, blood-tingling words.
Contrary to his usual practice, he sought the privilege of going on to
the coaching line, where his sneers and slurs were of a nature that
aroused protests from the crowd, and finally forced Riley to keep him
on the bench when he was idle.
Locke opened the sixth by fanning Trollop, Grady, and Mace, one
after another; and then, in the final half, he came first to bat for
Kingsbridge.
“Get back off the pan, you peanut-headed sample of nature’s
carelessness,” rasped Hoover, ready to pitch. “Get back, or I’ll take
a rib outer yer!”
“I’m in my box,” returned Locke calmly. “Pitch the ball, sorehead.”
With a murderous expression, Hoover scorched one straight at his rival,
and Tom barely escaped being hit by a most amazing, lightninglike
dodge. This brought the Kingsbridge crowd up howling wrathfully, and
Locke, recovering his position at the pan, cried loudly enough for
Hoover to hear:
“Try it again, old boy――try it again, and they’ll be coming after you
with war clubs and scalping knives.”
Captain Harney ran out and grabbed Hoover. “Keep your head, Jock――keep
your head,” he begged. “He’s won the crowd. He’s got ’em with him.
You’ll start a fight that’ll mean busted heads if you hit him on
purpose.”
Already two constables, wearing their badges displayed, were having
their hands full to keep back a few hot-headed ones, who seemed eager
to charge upon the diamond to reach Hoover.