As Lefty came in from the field, he passed close to the disgruntled pitcher, and if looks could kill he would have been finished then and there. “I’ll get you yet, you swelled-headed squirt!” Schaeffer hissed. “Wait, that’s all――just wait!” Locke smiled blandly. “Quit your beefing,” he advised. “You’re making everybody tired.” CHAPTER XXXI ONCE TOO OFTEN The Hornets were in high spirits as they took the field. To be sure, the score was no more than tied, but the expedition with which those two runs had been made was most encouraging. The sudden and effective brace Locke had taken in the last inning removed, in a measure, the fears some of his teammates had entertained concerning his ability to handle the situation; and, as they scattered to their places on the field, they urged him to “go in and eat ’em up.” Apparently that was just what Lefty meant to do. The first batter seemed unable to connect fairly with any of the balls passed up to him, and he finally hoisted a foul back of the pan, which Fargo smothered without difficulty. When his successor, Gash Benkard, fanned, it looked as if that half of the inning was going to be a tame one. In any game it is unwise to make predictions of that sort, however. Games have been won with no men on bases and two out, and this one was still young. Cinch Brown walked up to the pan, cool, confident, ready to duplicate his performance of the inning previous. He did not find it quite so easy, however. He slashed ineffectively at two balls pitched to him, but finally succeeded in dropping a dopy little Texas leaguer over the infield. Kenny followed him. He, too, had done well on his first trip to the plate, and hoped to do better now. He declined to nibble at Lefty’s teasers, but stood, grimly immovable, waiting for one which suited him. Nevertheless, the southpaw fooled him with two handsome shoots, and then, having a bit of leeway, tried a high, wide one. Kenny did an unexpected thing. Reaching far over the plate, he caught the ball within an inch of the end of his bat, and sent it into deep right field. With perfect handling, it would not have been dangerous. “Dolly” Walker had taken many such drives with ease, but perhaps he was too confident. At all events, the ball did not strike his mitt quite squarely, seemed to hesitate an instant, and then trickled unaccountably over the edge of the leather, falling to the turf. By the time the amazed and discomfited fielder had snatched it up and lined it to first, Kenny was safe on the sack, while Brown, who had apparently forgot that two were “down” already, slid to second just ahead of the flying horsehide. Schaeffer was exultant. “Got him on the run!” he jeered. “He’s a cinch. Get in there, Pete. A little single is all we want. A little safety’s the goods! You know where to put it.”