The roaring approval of the crowd caused the blood to tingle in Elgin’s veins. Before the end of the game he meant to have them shouting his name as loudly as they had yelled for Russell, or Pop Jennings, or any other of the old favorites, on the opening day. It wasn’t such a hard matter, after all, to pitch in a Big League contest. By carefully following Fargo’s signals, he struck out Brock, the visitors’ center fielder, and then walked toward the bench with a little, unconscious swagger. One or two of his fellow players told him how well he’d done. Brennan, even, added his approval. Elgin fancied that he had made a very good start, indeed, and that there wasn’t a doubt of his form improving as the game progressed. He was quite satisfied with his cleverness in letting only three batters oppose him. He gave no thought to how much the man behind the pan had contributed to this result. Neither he nor any one else had the least conception of the fight which had gone on in Buck Fargo’s mind between loyalty to his team and the contempt and hatred he felt for the pitcher his brains and experience were helping so greatly. The caustic comment and jeering criticism which had greeted Elgin’s appearance were as nothing to the disparaging chorus that arose when Lefty walked out into the diamond. Baseball fans are extremely partizan, and the supporters of the Hornets outnumbered those of their opponents ten to one. The southpaw could not help being a bit affected by the unflattering remarks hurled at him from the bleachers and grandstand, even though he knew how little such things counted and how fickle the average rooter is. He felt, too, and rather painfully, the lack of encouragement from his own team. He knew he was not one of them. They had shown him that only too plainly. With the exception of one or two, they had made him perfectly aware of the fact that they regarded him as a man who had yet to win his spurs, and on whom the honor of opening the first game with the Hornets had devolved more by accident, or through a whim of their manager, than from any real worth or proven merit. Their silence as he toed the slab was in vivid contrast to the behavior of their opponents in the first half of the inning. It made him set his teeth and resolve desperately to make good; to show them that he had something in him; to vindicate Jack Kennedy’s judgment; incidentally, to prove to the latter how grateful he was for having been given this chance. For a second he waited for his catcher’s signal, but none came. Dirk Nelson seemed to be occupied in settling down behind the pan and making sure that his mitt was in place. Lefty wondered whether the backstop’s well-known chumminess with Pete Grist, the popular Blue Stockings’ twirler, had anything to do with this unusual state of absent-mindedness. Grist had shown unmistakable signs of ill humor on discovering that he was not to start on the slab to-day.