"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
