Bernsteine bingled a bone-breaker against Fred Lace's shins, and the third baseman chased it long enough to make fruitless any attempt to get the man.
"Come, Lefty," shouted a Kingsbridger; "you'll have ter do it alone. You ain't gittin' no s'port."
And now, as if he, too, felt the strain of it, and the tension was too much, Tom Locke handed up four balls, and filled the sacks.
"It's the same old story!" shouted Harney from the coaching line. "They've gone to pieces again! We've got 'em! We've got 'em! We win it right here! Old southpaw is making an altitude record! He's gone! He's up out of sight now! He'll never come down! Kill it, Bingo, if he puts one across!"
Kingsbridge was apprehensively silent, taut, and choked with dread; Bancroft howled and screamed like a lot of caged Camorrists. Bangs gripped his club, longing for a two-bagger, or even a long, clean single. Locke took his time, absolutely declining to betray signs of agitation similar to those which had marked his advent upon that field.
"You've got to do it, Lefty!" came entreat-
