umpire called "play," and Bancroft promptly sent Harney jogging forth to the pan with his pet bat on his shoulder. Tom was given a rousing cheer by his admirers.
"You know what to do to 'em, Lefty," yelled a man on the bleachers. "You're the boy fer us. We're backin' you."
Harney drove his spikes into the dry ground and squared himself, his bat held high and ready. His posture was that of a man who welcomed speed, and rather preferred that the ball should be up around his shoulders; therefore, Locke opened with one across his knees on the inside corner. True, Harney hit it promptly, but he only batted a weak grounder into the diamond, and Labelle, grabbing it quickly, whipped him out at first by a wide margin.
"Just as easy as ever!" whooped a delighted Kingsbridger. "Pick off the next one, Tommy, old top."
Trollop held his bat low, so Locke kept the ball high and close, causing it to jump, and the Bancroft center fielder slashed at three without making even a foul.
"Some pitchin', Lefty, some pitchin'!" was the cry.
Wop Grady, his face knotted and puckered, as
