"Four straight balls to begin a game is some rotten pitching."
"I don't s'pose he's uster this sort of a crowd," admitted Cope apologetically, coming round and seating himself beside Hutchinson. "He's a gentleman, and he's usually played with—er—well, gentlemanly comp'ny."
"He's out of his element here. This is real baseball, played by scrappers who are ready to fight every inch of the way. Tell me, Mr. Cope, where did you discover that worthless piece of excess baggage?"
The elder man's face became still redder. "Never you mind about that. I've watched his record, and it's a good one. I didn't buy no pig in a poke. Didn't he stop Fryeburg arter Deever blew up?"
"They're marks. Deever made monkeys of them until his sore wing pegged out. Anybody with a straight ball and a little speed could have held 'em."
"Mebbe so: but, all the same, I know this feller can pitch."
"If he don't show some signs of it pretty soon, I'll bench him and send Skillings in."
"Now, you give him a show; you give him a chance. He'll straighten out, and show you some-
