"Hey, Tom," called Larry Stark, "did you get what Hink was telling us?"
Locke started, shook himself a bit, and turned.
"I was thinking just then," he said. "What was it?"
They told him, and he acknowledged that he knew of no pitcher by the name of Craddock.
"They say he's a hot article," said Hinkey. "Feller that tole me 'bout him seemed to think we was goin' to git up ag'inst the real thing t'-morrer."
"What you tryin' to do," growled Sockamore, "frighten Lefty? Look at him. He's fergot about Craddock a'ready."
Locke was again gazing out of the window in a preoccupied, moody manner.
"Whut's the matter with him?" wondered Hunchy Oulds. "He's been like that 'most all day. He must be in love—or sick."
"Same t'ing," grinned Labelle.
"Hope he don't go gittin' off his feed now," muttered Hinkey. "He's due t' git his bumps some time, but I'd like ter see him pull through t'-morrer, 'specially if they do spring a new pitcher on us."
"Maybe," said Reddy Crandall, "Hutch won't work him to-morrow. I was told by a Fryeburger
