With the head of the list coming up, Riley had called for a sacrifice, and, much as he hated to do it, Hoover sought to obey. He did not even foul the first ball he tried to bunt; but Oulds, in his haste to get Bangs going down, made a bad throw, and the runner reached second base. “Ah!” thought Jock exultantly. “Now I can hit it out!” But he could not hit it out, although he did his best. Locke sent him to the bench, fanned and furious. Harney, however, batted a lingerer into the diamond, and little Labelle eagerly overran it, which put two on the sacks. It was still a game, and the Bancroft crowd was beginning to froth, while the Kingsbridgers felt their nerves shaking again. With two on, only one out, and Trollop and Grady to hit, all sorts of things might happen. What really happened was two strike-outs, which went to the credit of the Kingsbridge southpaw, and made Janet Harting declare she “just wanted to hug him.” Locke was one of Hoover’s victims in the eighth, which, however, did not seem to disturb his equanimity in the least, and gave the Bancrofter but poor and unsatisfactory solace. There was no run-getting, and the ninth opened with the Kingsbridgers rooting for Locke to choke it off in a hurry. The “Bullies” always fought to the finish, and they were in the game to take advantage of anything favorable that might happen. Once more Labelle, who should have easily handled Mace’s grounder for an assist, became too eager, and failed to get the ball up cleanly, following with a poor throw that presented the runner with “a life.” Standing, every man Jack of them, the Bancrofters on the bleachers whooped things up desperately. They were disheartened a bit when McGovern hoisted an infield fly, and went to the bench; but they awoke with redoubled energy as Bernsteine bingled a bone-breaker against Fred Lace’s shins, and the third baseman chased it long enough to make fruitless any attempt to get the man. “Come, Lefty,” shouted a Kingsbridger; “you’ll have ter do it alone. You ain’t gittin’ no s’port.” And now, as if he, too, felt the strain of it, and the tension was too much, Tom Locke handed up four balls, and filled the sacks. “It’s the same old story!” shouted Harney from the coaching line. “They’ve gone to pieces again! We’ve got ’em! We’ve got ’em! We win it right here! Old southpaw is making an altitude record! He’s gone! He’s up out of sight now! He’ll never come down! Kill it, Bingo, if he puts one across!” Kingsbridge was apprehensively silent, taut, and choked with dread; Bancroft howled and screamed like a lot of caged Camorrists. Bangs gripped his club, longing for a two-bagger, or even a long, clean single. Locke took his time, absolutely declining to betray signs of agitation similar to those which had marked his advent upon that field. “You’ve got to do it, Lefty!” came entreatingly from the man who had shouted before. “If you fail us now, there’ll be a fun’rul after the game.” Locke whipped over a high one.