“A flash in the pan,” laughed King. “It’s a good thing he has betrayed himself right off the reel, for that will give us all the more time to recover from the shock. There, there goes the second batter to first. Now hear the crowd rub it into the poor dub. Oh, say! they’re soaking him. There’ll be a riot if he isn’t sent to the stable pretty quick. Listen to that! I knew it!” The exasperated Kingsbridgers were howling for the removal of Locke, the cry to take him out immediately swelling into a roar from all sides of the field. Forgetting the cautioning words of her companion, Miss Harting again sprang to her feet. “Take him out!” she cried; but her voice was drowned in the mighty volume of sound. “Steady, Janet,” said Bent, taking hold of her arm with one hand and gently drawing her back to the seat. “This racket is making the nags nervous, and I’d hate to spill you out, after promising your grudging father to look after you and see that nothing happened. They’ll have to put the blanket on Lefty now. The crowd won’t stand for any more of him.” On the Kingsbridge bench Henry Cope and Manager Hutchinson were arguing over it, the former hot and insistent, the latter cold and unemotionally scornful. “One chance more――give him another show,” demanded Cope. “I tell ye I _know_ he can pitch.” “Perhaps he can pitch hay,” returned Hutchinson; “but not baseball. Listen to that howling mob. They’ll murder him pretty quick. I don’t want the responsibility on my shoulders.” “I’ll take all the responsibility; he’s my man, and I’ll shoulder it. Let him try the next feller.” “When the whole town gets to kicking at me, will you stand up and say you insisted on it against my wishes?” “Didn’t I jest say I’d shoulder it! Nobody shan’t put the blame on you.” “Oh, all right. They’ll mob him on the diamond if he hands out another pass, and that’s just what he’ll do. He’s white as a ghost with fear. He couldn’t get the ball over now if his life depended on it.” Indeed, the wretched pitcher was ghastly white, the pallor of his face making his dark-brown eyes seem almost black; and into the depths of those eyes had come a light like a dull-red flame, flaring up swiftly. A few moments before he had felt his own nerves unsteady, and fought in vain for control of them; now, with the howling demand for his removal hammering into his ears, he suddenly found himself steady as a foundation rock. His resentment and anger was of the white-hot variety that transmutes. A man serene and calm it might unnerve; one doubtful and wavering it might turn to iron. Slowly he turned until he had faced every side of the field, and all that mass of snarling humanity, yelling at him, jeering, insulting, shaking their fists, their faces red and wroth, their eyes full of contempt, their lips hurling forth threats of bodily violence――and he smiled at them. “Howl away,” he said, but no one save himself heard the words. “I’ll show you some pitching yet.”