A yell rose from the crowd which now almost completely encircled the field. It was not a cheer, such as may sometimes be heard at the beginning of a Big League game; it was a sudden, sharp, nerve-shocking combination of bellow and shriek, primitive in its methodless manner of expressing joyous satisfaction and elation that the moment had arrived for the contest to begin. Thus may have a gathering of primordial mankind, assembled to witness some sort of sanguinary gladiatorial contest, voiced its fierce emotion at the sight of trained warriors charging upon one another in the arena. This burst of sound died away in a few scattering whoops and yelps as the umpire, body protector adjusted, mask held ready, lifted his hand for silence. “Game t’-day,” he shouted hoarsely, “Bancrof’ ag’inst Kingsbridge. Bat’ry f’r Kingsbridge, Locke ’n’ Oulds; bat’ry f’r Bancroft, Hoover ’n’ Bangs. Pla-a-ay ball-ll!” “Ye-ee-ee!” shrieked the crowd, and then settled down to enjoy the struggle. Bill Harney, clever sticker and captain of the Bancroft team, was ready at the plate. “Hunchy” Oulds, breastplated and masked, spat into the pocket of his catching mitt, rubbed the moisture about on the dented leather with his fingers, and then squatted behind the pan to signal. The umpire, celluloid recorder held behind his back, leaned forward on his toes to get a clear view over Oulds’ head. Tom Locke toed the slab. “Git th’ fust one, boy!” roared a voice from the crowd. “Show what y’ c’n do. Breeze him!” The tall young man on the mound gave a shake of his head as he tossed back a lock of brown hair. His clean-cut face was a bit pale, and he seemed somewhat nervous, which was not strange, considering his apparent youth and the nature of the tumultuous, rough-and-ready crowd whose eyes were fastened upon him. He wore a glove on his right hand, and it was his cleat-tipped right shoe that touched the slab. Leaning forward, he nodded a bit as he caught the catcher’s signal, swinging immediately into his delivery. “Ball!” bellowed the umpire, as the sphere went shooting over, high and wide, a white streak in the air. “Aw-w, get ’em down!” brayed the coacher back of first, while the one on the opposite side of the diamond whooped derisively, and the batter, having flung a glance skyward, grinned in a taunting way. “He ain’t on stilts. He can’t reach ’em in the clouds,” added the coacher. “Stiddy, boy,” gurgled Oulds, returning the ball. “Make him hit.” That first wide one brought a mocking shout from the Bancroft bunch on the bleachers, and apparently Locke grew still more nervous, for his second pitch forced Harney to do a lively dodge to avoid being bored in the ribs. “Ball tuh!” “Wow-wow!” barked one coacher. “He’s wild as mountain scenery.” “Take a ramble, Cap; he’ll walk ye,” cried the other coacher. The Bancroft rooters scoffed again; the Kingsbridge crowd was anxiously silent.