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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.
