“Strike!” blared the umpire. Before Bangs had finished kicking at the decision, the pitcher bent over another. “Strike tuh!” “Get against it, Bingo――get against it!” yelled Harney. “Spoil the good ones, anyhow.” Two balls followed. Then came a marvelous drop that Bangs missed by many inches, and Kingsbridge roared, drowning the Bancroft groan. Jock Hoover had been swinging two bats. He dropped one of them, and walked into the box, stooping a moment to rub his palms on the dry dirt. Never in his life had he desired half as much to get a hit, and never had he believed more firmly that he would get one. “You’re the boy, Jock!” shrieked a rooter. “Bring ’em home! Win your own game, old fightin’ cock!” From the opposite side came a different cry: “He’s your meat, Lefty! Get him, and it’s all over! Don’t lose him, on your life!” It was to be the great test. A clean hit would leave Hoover still supreme in the league; a strike-out would place another far above him. The lips of the Bully at bat curled back from his teeth, and he stood there ready, like a man made of steel springs. With a sort of placid grimness, Locke swung into his delivery. Hoover fouled the first one into the bleachers. “Strike!” “That’s one on him!” “You’ve got him coming, Lefty!” “He can’t hit you!” “You can’t let him hit!” “Do it again!” Hoover stamped his spikes into the ground, rooting himself, that the hit might be effective when he landed on the ball. He had felt of the first one; he would straighten the next one out. In fancy, he saw himself cantering over the sacks, with the runners ahead of him scoring, and the Bancrofters splitting their throats. Doubtless a two-bagger would score all three of the runners; and then, even if he did not reach the rubber himself, he would go out there and hold the “Kinks” runless in the last of the ninth. He knew he could do it. “Ball-l-l!” Jock sneered at Locke’s teaser. What a chump the fellow was to think he would reach for anything like that! “Put one over!” he invited. “You don’t dare!” It came――whistling, high, and taking an inward shoot. Hoover did not graze the horsehide. “Strike tuh!” That set the Kingsbridgers off again: “Get him, Lefty――get him!” “Oh, you, Lefty!” “You’re the stuff, old boy!” “Sic him, you wiz!” “Mow him down!” “Polish him off!” “End his suffering, Lefty!” “Oh, you, Lefty! Oh, you, Lefty!” Hoover’s teeth were grinding together like millstones. Although angered by his failure, he still gripped and held his confidence that he could hit Locke at this time when a hit meant so much; for, as a pinch hitter, he had an enviable record. Another shoot came over. Jock hit it. But again the ball went into the bleachers, causing the umpire to stop the base runners with a bellow: “Foul!” “That’s the best he can do, Lefty! He’s going! He’s almost gone!” There was a delay. Some one had pocketed the ball, and presently a spotless, fresh one was tossed out to Locke.