Nor was the sympathy of all the visitors with the new pitcher. Curley, Sullivan, and Heines knew that the success of Stranger might mean that at least one of them would receive his release, and, together on the bench, they nursed their ineffective whips, waiting and hoping to see Doyle do things to the southpaw. What passed in Lefty Locke’s mind as he toed the slab and took Coffin’s signal not even Kennedy could know. Did he remember other occasions when he had faced batters more formidable than Doyle and felt no tremor of apprehension, or was the past a forgotten blank? Was he at that moment the Phil Hazelton who had made good under Kennedy with the majors, or was he Bob Stranger, now pitching for the first time in a game of baseball? Did he remember Elgin, whose trickery had so nearly ended his Big League prospects, or was his present rival and former foe absolutely unknown to him? Whatever he thought at that moment, his face revealed nothing. It was as impassive as a mask; the grim, determined mask of one who knew his task and was ready to meet it. Coffin, having signaled, put up his glove behind Doyle’s shoulder, and, as he had thrown at old Jack’s hands in the morning, Lefty Locke whipped the ball past the batter’s chin and into the pocket of that yawning mitt. There was no attempt to drive the batter back from the pan, yet Doyle, jerking his head away, heard the umpire declare a strike. Instantly he kicked on the decision, and Hank Bristol flung one of his two bats high into the air. The local fans roared their disapproval, encouraged by these movements of the batter and the manager. “Robbery!” shouted Bristol. “Robbery! Robbery!” came from the crowd. “That was a ball!” Coffin, laughing, snapped the sphere back to Lefty, who stopped it with his gloved right hand, and permitted it to drop into his bare left, the old movement which was so familiar to Kennedy. “That’s him!” whispered old Jack to himself. “That’s Lefty, sure. Let him get squared away, and they’re through scoring. If they don’t make another run this inning, it’s all off, and we’ve got ’em going.” Lefty gave little heed to the anxious base runners. He had selected Doyle for his victim, and it was easier and safer to keep after him than to take the chance of throwing to the sacks when it was not necessary to drive the runners back. Having made his kick, Doyle was satisfied, though Bristol kept it up until warned by the umpire that he would be chased from the game. The next one pitched by Lefty was wide. When it was called a ball, the crowd sarcastically howled at the umpire, and asked him if he was sure it was not a strike. Peter McLaughlin found it almost impossible to remain on his seat. “You’ve got him!” the old man shouted. “He can’t hit ye, Stranger! He can’t see your fast ones. Give him a curve now, and see what he can do with it.” Without looking in the direction of the excited hotel proprietor, Lefty nodded and smiled.