Hinkey tossed the ball to Locke. The youngster was deliberate enough in his movements, but still, seeking to put a straight one over on the inside, he compelled the second batter to make a hasty get-away. Oulds popped up from behind the batsman, ready to throw, but Harney had taken no chances. “Don’t have to do it with this duck pitchin’,” laughed the captain of the Bullies. “He’ll walk us all. It’s a shame.” Now not a few of the local players were beginning to betray annoyance and disgust, and the complaints of the home crowd grew louder. Henry Cope perspired from every pore; but Bob Hutchinson, still with his palm propping his chin, his cold eyes fixed on Locke, did not stir. The harassed pitcher walked in a small, complete circle round the slab. “Say eeny, meeny, miney, mo, Lefty,” advised one of the coachers. “That’ll sure break the hoodoo.” “For the love of Mike, do put one over!” entreated a Kingsbridger piteously――so piteously that a few, who had not permitted their sufferings wholly to rob them of their sense of humor, laughed. But Locke actually handed up the seventh straight ball in succession! This despite the fact that he had never tried harder in all his life to find the plate. The clamor swelled; the crowd began to hurl insults at the unfortunate twirler. The Bancroft players, waiting on the bench to bat, were choking with laughter. One coacher did monkey-shines, and the other pretended to weep, boring his knuckles into his eyes and bellowing lustily. Oulds held the ball until ordered to throw it, by the umpire. Locke made a two-handed muff of that easy toss, and the insults came thicker. Harney, dancing off first, sought to draw a throw, knowing the pitcher in his present state of mind might put the ball into the bleachers. Locke did throw to first, but he took so much care that the runner was lounging on the sack when Hinkey got the sphere. “You couldn’t throw out a sick cat in four million years, Lefty,” mocked the coacher. The local players looked at Captain Stark; Stark looked at Hutchinson on the bench; Hutchinson did not move a muscle. “Don’t delay the game,” begged Harney. “Let the lobster pitch, if you’re going to.” Skillings, chewing gum, in anticipation of the call every one seemed to believe must come directly, was keeping his arm limbered by throwing to Deever, the latter sparing his sore wing by tossing the sphere back with his left hand. Locke’s forehead was knotted as he once more toed the slab. This time he came near getting the ball across, but it missed the corner by an inch, and the umpire, now back of the pitcher, made a sweeping signal with his left arm for Trollop to go down. “Here we go round the mulberry bush,” sang Harney, jogging to second; but his words were drowned by the catcalls, whoops, and jeers of the spectators. “Oh, you left-handed lobster!” “You’re on the blink!” “Go die somewhere!” “You can’t pitch!” “You never could pitch!” “Take it away and bury it!”