see that nothing happened. They'll have to put the blanket on Lefty now. The crowd won't stand for any more of him."
On the Kingsbridge bench Henry Cope and Manager Hutchinson were arguing over it, the former hot and insistent, the latter cold and unemotionally scornful.
"One chance more—give him another show," demanded Cope. "I tell ye I know he can pitch."
"Perhaps he can pitch hay," returned Hutchinson; "but not baseball. Listen to that howling mob. They'll murder him pretty quick. I don't want the responsibility on my shoulders."
"I'll take all the responsibility; he's my man, and I'll shoulder it. Let him try the next feller."
"When the whole town gets to kicking at me, will you stand up and say you insisted on it against my wishes?"
"Didn't I jest say I'd shoulder it! Nobody shan't put the blame on you."
"Oh, all right. They'll mob him on the diamond if he hands out another pass, and that's just what he'll do. He's white as a ghost with fear. He couldn't get the ball over now if his life depended on it."
Indeed, the wretched pitcher was ghastly white, the pallor of his face making his dark-brown eyes
