leave Hoover still supreme in the league; a strikeout would place another far above him. The lips of the Bully at bat curled back from his teeth, and he stood there ready, like a man made of steel springs. With a sort of placid grimness, Locke swung into his delivery.
Hoover fouled the first one into the bleachers.
"Strike!"
"That's one on him!"
"You've got him coming, Lefty!"
"He can't hit you!"
"You can't let him hit!"
"Do it again!"
Hoover stamped his spikes into the ground, rooting himself, that the hit might be effective when he landed on the ball. He had felt of the first one; he would straighten the next one out. In fancy, he saw himself cantering over the sacks, with the runners ahead of him scoring, and the Bancrofters splitting their throats. Doubtless a two-bagger would score all three of the runners; and then, even if he did not reach the rubber himself, he would go out there and hold the "Kinks" runless in the last of the ninth. He knew he could do it.
"Ball-l-l!"
Jock sneered at Locke's teaser. What a chump
