the fellow was to think he would reach for anything like that!
"Put one over!" he invited. "You don't dare!"
It came—whistling, high, and taking an inward shoot. Hoover did not graze the horsehide.
"Strike tuh!"
That set the Kingsbridgers off again:
"Get him, Lefty—get him!"
"Oh, you, Lefty!"
"You're the stuff, old boy!"
"Sic him, you wiz!"
"Mow him down!"
"Polish him off!"
"End his suffering, Lefty!"
"Oh, you, Lefty! Oh, you, Lefty!"
Hoover's teeth were grinding together like millstones. Although angered by his failure, he still gripped and held his confidence that he could hit Locke at this time when a hit meant so much; for, as a pinch hitter, he had an enviable record.
Another shoot came over. Jock hit it. But again the ball went into the bleachers, causing the umpire to stop the base runners with a bellow:
"Foul!"
"That's the best he can do, Lefty! He's going! He's almost gone!"
