“I don’t s’pose he’s uster this sort of a crowd,” admitted Cope apologetically, coming round and seating himself beside Hutchinson. “He’s a gentleman, and he’s usually played with――er――well, gentlemanly comp’ny.” “He’s out of his element here. This is real baseball, played by scrappers who are ready to fight every inch of the way. Tell me, Mr. Cope, where did you discover that worthless piece of excess baggage?” The elder man’s face became still redder. “Never you mind about that. I’ve watched his record, and it’s a good one. I didn’t buy no pig in a poke. Didn’t he stop Fryeburg arter Deever blew up?” “They’re marks. Deever made monkeys of them until his sore wing pegged out. Anybody with a straight ball and a little speed could have held ’em.” “Mebbe so: but, all the same, I know this feller can pitch.” “If he don’t show some signs of it pretty soon, I’ll bench him and send Skillings in.” “Now, you give him a show; you give him a chance. He’ll straighten out, and show you somethin’. I’m backin’ him, and I want you to listen to me.” “I had an idea,” said Hutchinson icily, “that I was engaged to manage this team.” “You was, but I’ve got somethin’ to say, and I insist that that boy has a good, square show.” “Ball!” Andy Trollop, following Harney at bat, stood lounging, with the club on his shoulder, and watched the first wide one pass, laughing as Oulds, reaching, growled beneath his breath. “If you try to stop ’em all, Hunchy,” said Andy, with pretended solicitude, “you’ll strain yourself, and have a doctor’s bill to pay. Better let ’em go to the net.” “You go to blazes!” retorted Oulds; which caused Andy to laugh still more. Instead of throwing the ball to Locke, the catcher suddenly lined it to first base, causing Harney to lunge back under Hinkey’s arm to the sack. Then Oulds removed his mask, and pretended to fuss with the elastic strap, which gave Stark an opportunity to run up to the pitcher and softly urge him to go slow and force Trollop to swing. “He thinks you can’t get ’em over,” whispered the captain, “and mebbe he won’t strike at the first one or two you put across. Keep it close, and take a chance. Don’t use a bender till you have to. Now, do steady down, son.” Locke’s only reply was a nod. His lips were pressed together, and his face was gray. He could hear the crowd growling everywhere save in the section occupied by the laughing, scoffing Bancrofters; try as he might, he could not deafen his ears to those unpleasant sounds. “Play ball!” yelled a coacher. “Play ball, and stop chewin’ the rag,” roared a man from the third-base bleachers. “I come here to see a game.” “Don’t look like you’d see much of a one to-day,” said another man. “I’d like to git my money back now.”