“Never mind that, kid,” soothed Oulds. “Take your time; don’t hurry. Make him hit.” The backstop returning the ball, Locke attempted to catch it with his gloved hand, dropped it, turned hastily, struck it with his toe, and sent it rolling toward second. Larry Stark, covering that sack, sprang after the sphere, scooped it up, and held it in both hands against his chest while stepping swiftly toward the pitcher to speak a few low, reassuring words. Then he tossed the ball, and danced back to his position. There was no doubt about it now; plainly Locke was nervous. Seeing this, the coachers and the visiting spectators did what they could to rattle him. Even though he tried to steady himself, the next ball from his fingers whiffed up a pop of dust two feet in front of the plate. “Ball three!” “The ascension begins early to-day,” laughed the coacher near third; and the Bancrofters behind him began to sing: “Up in a Balloon, Boys.” On the home bench, Manager Hutchinson leaned forward, his elbow on his knee, his hand propping his chin, eyes narrowed and fixed on the disturbed pitcher. Standing behind the bench, Henry Cope removed his old straw hat to mop his bald head and flushed face, trying all the while to preserve a calm and confident smile. The crowd in the stand and along the right side of the field stirred restlessly. Murmurs were heard: “What’s the matter with him?” “Punk!” “Rotten!” “He can’t find the plate!” “He’s no good!” “Take your time, Locke,” begged Captain Stark. “Don’t hurry. Put it straight over, and let him hit. We’re behind you.” Harney, sneering, twiddled his bat and made a bluff of turning his back to the plate. Although he did not turn, his indifferent pose spoke his disdain and belief that he would receive a pass. The assurance was justified. Seeking to get a grip on himself, Tom Locke strove to whip over a straight one. Then―― “Take y’ur base!” croaked the umpire as the horsehide plunked into Oulds’ reaching mitt. CHAPTER VI “TAKE HIM OUT!” Flinging his club toward the bench, Harney jogged lazily down the line, grinning into the faces of the dissatisfied and sullen Kingsbridgers on the bleachers. The chortling coacher hailed him hilariously: “Too bad! Too bad! That pudding is scared stiff. He won’t last an innin’. Back to the pastures for him.” The murmurs of the home crowd became louder: “Who ever heard of him, anyhow?” “He can’t pitch!” “Who picked him up?” “He’s Hen Cope’s find.” “What’s old Cope know about baseball?” “That dub never saw a real game before.” Cope put a hand on Hutchinson’s shoulder. “The boy’ll settle down in a minute,” he said, trying to speak in a confident and undisturbed way. “He’s just a bit shaky to start with, but he’ll git into gear soon.” “He’d better――in a hurry,” retorted the manager in that same dead-level, colorless voice. “Four straight balls to begin a game is some rotten pitching.”