that easy toss, and the insults came thicker. Harney, dancing off first, sought to draw a throw, knowing the pitcher in his present state of mind might put the ball into the bleachers.
Locke did throw to first, but he took so much care that the runner was lounging on the sack when Hinkey got the sphere.
"You couldn't throw out a sick cat in four million years, Lefty," mocked the coacher.
The local players looked at Captain Stark; Stark looked at Hutchinson on the bench; Hutchinson did not move a muscle.
"Don't delay the game," begged Harney. "Let the lobster pitch, if you're going to."
Skillings, chewing gum, in anticipation of the call every one seemed to believe must come directly, was keeping his arm limbered by throwing to Deever, the latter sparing his sore wing by tossing the sphere back with his left hand.
Locke's forehead was knotted as he once more toed the slab. This time he came near getting the ball across, but it missed the corner by an inch, and the umpire, now back of the pitcher, made a sweeping signal with his left arm for Trollop to go down.
"Here we go round the mulberry bush," sang Harney, jogging to second; but his words were
