The second effort was not much of an improvement, and a howl of derision greeted it; for there is nothing a crowd of old baseball men enjoy more than having fun with a green cub. The sound had a curious effect upon Lefty. Before the echoes of that jeering chorus died away he had regained his grip. He realized that they were doing their best to rattle him and cause him to make an exhibition of himself, and his jaw squared resolutely. “I’ll fool ’em!” he muttered. “I’ll show him something.” He caught the ball easily, his eyes fixed on Fargo’s grinning face. The big catcher stood negligently swinging his bat, and when he saw the sphere coming apparently straight toward him with speed, he dodged back precipitously, only to behold it shoot gracefully in and cut a corner of the plate. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “Accidents will happen. You’ve really got a curve, have you? Let’s have another one like that, if you can do it.” Lefty could and did, and the batter sent the horsehide soaring over the fence. Obedient to instructions, he tossed aside his bat, and began trotting leisurely around the bases. Halfway between first and second he paused for a moment. “You’ll learn, bub,” he chuckled. “Some time next fall mebbe we’ll make a pitcher out of you.” Then he resumed his placid way about the diamond, while a new ball was produced, and Locke faced the second batter. Lefty did not try any more curves, for he had suddenly realized that this was batting practice, not an exhibition of pitching. He continued to find the plate with a fair degree of accuracy, however, and one after another the three other players smashed out the sphere with joyous enthusiasm, forgetting in the delight of batting to continue their baiting of the new pitcher. Not so Buck Fargo. He enjoyed batting quite as much, as his companions, but he also dearly loved to get a cub’s goat. “Where’s your curves, bub?” he taunted, as he took up his bat for the second time. “Can’t you give us something interesting, or was they accidents, like I thought?” Lefty smiled faintly. He did not intend to give Fargo the satisfaction of seeing that his words made any impression whatever. In spite of his determination, however, as he flung his arm forward, unconsciously he gave it a little twist which, made the horsehide――seemingly wide at first――cut a corner of the plate in an elusive curve. The batter hit it glancingly, and popped up a little fly which Locke smothered without moving more than a step or two from his position. “Not bad for the bush,” chuckled Fargo, quite undisturbed. “Saved me the trouble of stretching my legs, anyhow. Come ahead, Cy, and see what you can do with the boy wonder from Squedunk.” He shot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye toward a distant part of the field, and went on in exactly the same tone, with scarcely a perceptible break: “He’s got a baby curve or two that might be fair if he could control ’em.”