Page:Lefty o' the Bush.djvu/87

 There was a delay. Some one had pocketed the ball, and presently a spotless, fresh one was tossed out to Locke.

"Where'll that one go when he hits it?" yelled a Bancrofter.

"When he hits it!" mocked a Kingsbridger. "He never will!"

Leaning forward to get Oulds' signal, Locke gave his head a shake. The sign for a drop was instantly changed to one calling for an inshoot, and the young pitcher lost no time.

There was a white streak in the air, and the ball almost seemed to twist round Hoover's neck, slightly grazing the bat close to his knuckles as he swung. Into Oulds' big mitt it plunked.

"Y're out!" was the cry of the umpire, as he flung his hand upward above his head.

Instantly Hoover called Tom Locke a vile name, and sent the bat, with all the strength of his quivering, muscular arms, spinning straight at the pitcher's head.