ingly from the man who had shouted before. "If you fail us now, there'll be a fun'rul after the game."
Locke whipped over a high one.
"Strike!" blared the umpire.
Before Bangs had finished kicking at the decision, the pitcher bent over another.
"Strike tuh!"
"Get against it, Bingo—get against it!" yelled Harney. "Spoil the good ones, anyhow."
Two balls followed. Then came a marvelous drop that Bangs missed by many inches, and Kingsbridge roared, drowning the Bancroft groan.
Jock Hoover had been swinging two bats. He dropped one of them, and walked into the box, stooping a moment to rub his palms on the dry dirt. Never in his life had he desired half as much to get a hit, and never had he believed more firmly that he would get one.
"You're the boy, Jock!" shrieked a rooter. "Bring 'em home! Win your own game, old fightin' cock!"
From the opposite side came a different cry:
"He's your meat, Lefty! Get him, and it's all over! Don't lose him, on your life!"
It was to be the great test. A clean hit would
