Harney snarled his annoyance after fanning; Trollop almost broke his back bumping one of the slow ones into the clutches of Labelle; Grady lifted a miserable foul back of first for Hinkey to gobble. Hutchinson had temporarily deserted the bench, and the Kinks came trotting in. Observing this, Locke grabbed Stark, and whispered something in his ear, Larry listening and nodding. “It won’t hurt to try it,” said the captain. “Here, Oulds.” It was the catcher’s turn to lead off. He listened to Stark’s repetition of Locke’s suggestion; then he stepped out to the plate, slipped his hands up on the bat a bit as Murtel pitched, and bunted the first ball. The Bullies were taken by surprise. The ball rolled slowly down just inside the third-base line, and Oulds, leaping away like a streak, actually turned that bunt into a safe base hit, to the complaints of the Bancroft spectators and the whooping merriment of the Kingsbridgers. Locke was promptly in position, and he followed with a bunt toward first. Even as the bunt was made the bat seemed to fall from his hands, and he was off like a shot toward the initial sack, leaping over the rolling ball as he went. Only by the liveliest kind of hustling did Murtel get the sphere up and snap it humming past the runner in time to get an assist on Harney’s put-out. Oulds was on second. Labelle, grinning, hopped into the batter’s box, and astonished the spectators of the game, and the Bancroft players, as well, by contributing the third bunt, which was so wholly unexpected that he reached first by a narrow margin. And now the Kingsbridge crowd was making all the noise, the Bancrofters seeming stricken dumb with apprehension. Murtel was angry, a fact he could not hide. For the first time he seemed, with deliberate intent, to keep the first ball pitched beyond the reach of the batter. Oulds, of course, had anchored temporarily at third, and Labelle, taking a chance, tried to steal on that pitch. Bangs made a line throw, but Lisotte, seeing Oulds dash off third, cut it down, only to discover that the tricky Kingsbridge catcher had bluffed. The Frenchman failed in an attempt to pin the runner before he could dive back to the sack. Locke had taken Crandall’s place on the coaching line back of third, giving Reddy a chance to get his bat, as he was the hitter who followed Stark; and it was the play to keep the ball rolling as fast as possible. Tom was laughing and full of ginger, his words of instruction to the runners sometimes sounding clear above the uproar of the excited crowd. “Keep it up! Keep it up!” he called. “Get off those cushions! Take a lead, and score! _Look out!_” Murtel had made an attempt to catch Labelle by a quick throw, but the little Canadian slid under McGovern’s arm. CHAPTER XLIII A GAME WORTH WINNING Locke had forgotten the blue parasol and its owner; he had no fleeting thought for Benton King; he was heart and soul in the game.