"Well," she faltered, "he—he looks clean and honest. One can see he isn't like the others—the most of them, anyway. Kingsbridge is going to bat now. I hope they can do something."
Hoover had shaken the kinks out of his arm by two or three throws to first, and, glancing round to make sure his backers were in position and ready, he stepped on to the slab and glowered at Labelle. Squatting, Bangs signaled, and the fire-*eating twirler swung into his first delivery.
Although a "waiter," with an excellent eye, Labelle seldom permitted himself to pass up the first one if it came over the rubber, and he sought to land on Hoover's corner-cutting slant. The resulting foul counted against the batter as a strike.
"That's a nibble; take a bite," shouted a coacher.
Labelle stamped his spikes into the ground, and squared himself again, unruffled. Hoover leered at him vindictively. The crowd rooted.
