Peter McLaughlin kept up his efforts to get Elgin’s goat, even though by so doing he was inviting personal injury from rabid Hatfielders within reach of him. And when a scrap starts out in the bush it is liable to make Ty Cobb’s whipping of an insolent fan look like fisticuffs between kittens at play. McLaughlin, however, had a mouth, and he was not afraid to use it in Hatfield or at home. “Shut up, you old toad,” commanded an angry spectator, “or somebody will hand you a wallop on the ear!” “When you come to Deering,” old Peter flung back, “you can talk and holler all you please, and anybody that tries to stop you will get into trouble with me. You can’t muzzle me here.” Those who knew him were aware that nothing save a sleep jab or a gag would keep him still, and some there were who found amusement in his apparently futile efforts to jar Elgin. Two more outfield catches promised to let Heines get away with another inning, but, with every man hitting the ball when he put it near the plate, it was his support that saved him to that point. Two safeties, however, landed runners on first and second, and a successful double steal caused Kennedy to shove out the hook again. Then the change catcher told Locke that his turn had come. The crowd watched the southpaw jogging to the slab; only McLaughlin and the Deering fans cheered him. Following that cheer, Elgin, on the coaching line, called to Pop Doyle, the man at bat: “Here’s a portsider with a straight ball and a prayer. He’ll put one over in your groove if you wait, and then you’ll show ’em why he isn’t pitching in the Big League now.” Doyle, a left-handed hitter, did not like southpaw pitchers, but Elgin had told every man on the team that the fellow who called himself Stranger was a frost; and the batter grinned like a wolf while Locke got the range of the pan with two or three throws, after Coffin had told him the signals. “There’s the fence, Pop!” cried Bristol, swinging two bats, with the expectation of following Doyle. “Get another pair of shoes by putting it over. You’ve won enough footwear to last you five years already. You can start a little retail store of your own when the season’s over. Make Kennedy’s new man contribute to your stock.” “You can’t get his goat that way,” howled McLaughlin. “He’s your jinx, and you know it. Give him a cheer, boys!” The bunch of Deering rooters responded lustily, but their cheer was drowned by the crowd roaring for Doyle to lace it out. CHAPTER XXXIII THE MAN ON THE MOUND Pop Doyle rapped the rubber and squared away like a man who believed he could drop another one over the fence any time he wished. This was the time to do it, too. This was the time to break the new pitcher’s heart before he could get his feet under him. This was the pinch in the game, with the temporarily faltering tide threatening to flow on and overwhelm the Deers.