There was a change in the aspect of the crowd and its behavior, for this was more like something worth while, and a few were beginning to think it possible they might have underestimated the ability of the southpaw slabman. Yet, lost confidence had not been wholly restored, and they waited to see what the final result would be, the Kingsbridgers silent, the Bancroft crowd still laughing and scoffing. “Never mind, Wop,” called the coacher at third. “He can’t do it agin. If he does, give it a ride. Come on, Trollop; git off that mattress――tear yourself free. On your toes! Ready to scorch if Wop biffs it. Git away, away, away off! More than that! I’ll watch the ball. Come on! Come on!” Locke drove Trollop back to the sack once, following which he quickly pitched the third ball to Grady. He had a way of throwing every one in almost precisely the same manner, which prevented a batter from judging what was coming by his style of delivery. It looked like another high one that might turn into a drop, but it proved to be a fancy inshoot, and Grady, doing his prettiest to connect, made a clean miss. “Y’u’re out!” barked the umpire. Then the crowd did cheer, for, in amazing contrast to the manner in which he had opened up, Tom Locke had whiffed Grady without wasting one. Henry Cope poked the silent Hutchinson in the ribs. “What’d I tell ye? What’d I tell ye?” he spluttered delightedly. “Now I guess you’ll see I ain’t such a bonehead in pickin’ pitchers. I played this game myself once.” “Wait,” said the manager without a flutter, or the slightest variation of intonation. “Strikin’ out one man that’s looking to walk don’t make a pitcher. He’s got to show me more’n that.” “He’ll show ye, all right,” asserted Cope. “I knew what he c’d do.” Gus Mace followed Grady at the pan. The right fielder of the Bullies, he was regarded as their heaviest hitter, and his batting the year before had caused the Kingsbridgers to groan with grief. He was boiling over with confidence as he faced Locke, but, getting a signal from Riley, he let the first one pass, in order that Trollop, grown weary of camping on first, might try to steal. It was a strike, and Oulds winged it to second in the effort to nail the runner, who had made a flying start and was burning up the ground. Trollop slid, spikes first, and Stark, who seemed to have him nipped, dropped the sphere in the attempt to avoid those spikes and tag the man at the same time. Trollop was safe. “Now’s the time, Mace!” cried the coacher back of third. “Hit it out. Give it a long sail, and let Andy walk home.” He had dropped his chatter about waiting for a pass. Mace gripped his trusty war club and waited, crouching a little. It was plain that the Kinks’ new pitcher had recovered his control, and the batter meant to hit anything that came across. He struck left-handed, and the next one pitched looked good to him. It dragged him almost across the pan, and he did not even foul it lightly.