“Here’s the boy who could have pitched the Blue Stockings to a pennant,” he thought; “and Al Carson didn’t know a good thing when he had it. He didn’t know how to handle the lad.” “Did I get away with that all right?” asked Lefty, with surprising simplicity. “Huh!” grunted Kennedy. “They didn’t score, did they? You ain’t heard anybody kickin’, have you?” “He’s some pitcher――he really is,” murmured Coffin, slipping into place between Sullivan and Curley. “Oh, wait,” muttered the big red-headed pitcher. “He’s only had to face one man, and I didn’t see that he showed so much.” “The Bucks will size him up in about two innings,” prophesied Curley, “and when they do――good night, Mr. Stranger!” “They’ve got a real pitcher in that fellow Elgin,” said Sullivan. “He struts like a peacock, sure; but he’s got speed and slants, and he knows where to put ’em.” “It’s my opinion,” said Coffin, “that Bob Stranger has got a little smoke himself, and that queer, twisting drop of his would fool old Honus Wagner.” “Yes, it would!” scoffed Curley. “It fooled Doyle once, but wait till next time, Coff――just you wait!” Even while this brief conversation was taking place, Elgin, still graceful, confident, and filled with ginger by the applause of the crowd, retired Captain Kilgore by the pop-fly route, and took on Buster Brown. Coffin, who followed Brown, began looking around for his pet bat. “You look to me like a blowed-up bladder,” said Brown, addressing Elgin. “Put one across, and see me nail it. But look out you don’t blow all to pieces when the bladder’s pricked.” “Get his goat! Get his goat!” howled Peter McLaughlin from the stand. “You can get it!” Elgin gave Brown a contemptuous smile. “Why,” he said, “you couldn’t hit me if I told you what I was going to throw. This will be a spitter. You never could hit a spitter.” Holding the ball covered by both hands, his head went back with a motion which seemed to indicate that he pasted one side of the ball with saliva. Then he actually threw the spitter to Brown, and Brown missed. “I’ll give you another, you big dub!” said Elgin. “Another just like that. Now, go ahead with your puncturing.” As good as his word, he threw another spitter, and again Brown fanned. “Say,” said the batter, “you’re copying the style of Kennedy’s new left-hander, ain’t you, telling the batter what you’re going to throw? You’re nothing but a plain copy, anyhow.” Somehow this touched Elgin, and his face burned. “If I was going to copy anybody,” he retorted, “I’d take a real pitcher for a model.” “Keep him chewin’ the rag,” bellowed McLaughlin. “You’ll git that goat yet.” Indeed, Elgin was so exasperated that he made a tremendously wild pitch, and, seeing it coming, Brown took a chance, and pretended that he was trying to hit it. With the swing, he let his bat fly to one side, and was off toward first, which he reached before the disgusted Yapp could recover the ball and stop him.