The pitcher, a dark-skinned, rangy fellow, wound up deliberately and shot the ball over. It split the plate clean. Larry swung at it--and missed it by two inches.

He looked mildly surprised, but set it down to the luck of the game and squared himself for a second attempt. This time he figured on a curve, but the boxman out-guessed him with a slow one that floated up to the plate as big as a balloon.

Larry almost broke his back in reaching for it, but again fanned the air.

The visiting players, who had looked on rather languidly, straightened up on the bench.

"Some cla.s.s to that pitcher," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Willis.

"It isn't often that a bush leaguer makes a monkey out of Larry," replied Burkett.

"I've seen these minor league pitchers before," grinned "Red" Curry. "They start off like a house afire, but about the fifth inning they begin to crumple up."

The third ball pitched was a wide outcurve at which Larry refused to bite.

He fouled off the next two and then swung savagely at a wicked drop that got away from him.

"You're out," called the umpire as the ball thudded into the catcher's mitt, and Larry came back a little sheepishly to his grinning comrades on the bench.

"What's the matter, Larry?" queried Iredell, as he moved up to make room for him. "Off your feed to-day?"

"You'll find out what the matter is when you face that bird," snorted Larry. "He's the real goods, and don't you forget it."

Denton, the second man in the batting order, took a ball and a strike, and then dribbled an easy roller to the box, which the swarthy pitcher had no trouble in getting to first on time.

Burkett, who followed, had better luck and sent a clean single between first and second. A shout went up from the Giant bench, which became a groan a moment later, when a snap throw by the pitcher nailed Burkett three feet off the bag.

The half inning had been smartly played and the Giants took the field with a slightly greater respect for their opponents.

Joe had pitched the day before, and it was up to Fraser to take his turn in the box. He walked out to his position with easy confidence. He was one of the best pitchers in either league, and it was he who had faced Joe in that last battle royal of the World's Series and had gone down defeated, but not disgraced.

But to-day from the start, it was evident that he was not himself. His speed was there and the curves, but control was lacking.

"Wild as a hawk," muttered McRae, as the first Denver man trotted down to base on b.a.l.l.s.

"Can't seem to locate the plate at all," grunted Robbie.

"He'll pull himself together all right," remarked Brennan, hopefully.

But the prophecy proved false, and the next two men up waited him out and were also rewarded with pa.s.ses. The bases were full without a hit having been made, and the crowds in the stand were roaring like mad.

Brennan from the coaching lines at first waved to Fraser and the latter, drawing off his glove, walked disgustedly to the bench.

"What's the matter with you to-day?" queried McRae. "You seemed to think the plate was up in the grandstand."

"Couldn't get the hang of it, somehow," Fraser excused himself. "Just my off day, I guess."

Hamilton succeeded him in the box, and from the way he started out it seemed as though he were going to redeem the poor work of his predecessor.

He struck out the first man on three pitched b.a.l.l.s, made the second send up a towering foul that Mylert caught after a long run, and the major leaguers began to breathe more freely.

"Guess he'll pull out of the hole all right," remarked Robbie.

But for the next batter, Hamilton, grown perhaps a trifle too confident, put one over in the groove, and the batter banged out a tremendous three-bagger to right field. Curry made a gallant try for it but could not quite reach.

Three runs came over the plate, while the panting batsman slid to third.

The crowd in the stands went wild then, and Thorpe, the manager of the local team, grinned in a mocking way at Brennan.

"Is this interesting enough?" he drawled, referring to Brennan's patronizing offer to lend him a player.

"Just a bit of luck," growled Brennan. "A few inches more and Curry would have got his hooks on the ball. Beside, the game's young yet. We've got the cla.s.s and that's bound to tell."

Hamilton, whose blood was up, put on more steam, and the third player went out on an infield fly. But the damage had been done, and those three runs at the very start loomed up as a serious handicap.

"Three big juicy ones," mourned McRae.

"And all of them on pa.s.ses," groaned Robbie. "Too bad we didn't put Hamilton in right at the start."

Neither team scored in the second inning, and the third also pa.s.sed without result.

Hamilton was mowing down the opposing batters with ease and grace. But the swarthy flinger for the local club was not a bit behind him. The heavy sluggers of the visiting teams seemed as helpless before him as so many school-boys.

"That fellow won't be in the minors long," commented Brennan. "I wonder some of my scouts haven't gone after him before this. Who is he, anyway?"

"I'll tell you who he is," broke in Robbie, suddenly. "I knew I'd seen him before somewhere, and I've been puzzling all this time to place him. Now I've tumbled. It's Alvarez, the crack pitcher of Cuba."

"Do you mean the fellow that stood the Athletics on their heads when they made that winter trip to Cuba a couple of years ago?" asked McRae.

"The same one," affirmed Robbie. "I happened to be there at one of the games, and he showed them up--hundred thousand dollar infield and all.

Connie was fairly dancing as he saw his pets slaughtered. I tell you, that fellow's a wonder--he'd have been in a major league long ago if it hadn't been for his color. He may be only a Cuban, and he says he is, but he's so dark-skinned that there'd be some prejudice against him and that's barred him out."

"That's what made Thorpe so confident," growled Brennan. "He's worked in a 'ringer' on us. We ought to make a kick."

"That would put us in a nice light, wouldn't it?" replied McRae, stormily.

"We'd like to see it in the papers, that the major leagues played the baby act because they couldn't bat a bush pitcher. Not on your life! Thorpe would be tickled to death to have us make a squeal. We'll simply have to lick him."

But if the promised licking was yet to come, it was not in evidence in the next two innings. Alvarez seemed as fresh as at the beginning, and his arm worked with the force and precision of a piston rod.

"What's the matter with you fellows, anyway?" raged McRae, when the end of the fifth inning saw the score remain unchanged. "You ought to be in the old ladies' home. It's a joke to call you ball players."

"It must be this Denver air," ventured Willis. "It's so high up here that a fellow finds it hard to breathe. These Denver b.o.o.bs are used to it and we're not."

"Air! air!" snapped McRae. "I notice you've got plenty of hot air. Go in and play the game, you bunch of false alarms."

Whether it was owing to his rasping tongue or their own growing resentment at the impudence of the minor leaguers, the All-Americans broke the ice in the sixth.

Burkett lined out a beauty between left and center that was good for two bases. Willis followed with a towering sky sc.r.a.per to right, which, although it was caught after a long run, enabled Burkett to get to third before the ball was returned. Then Becker who had perished twice before on feeble taps to the infield, whaled out a home run to the intense jubilation of his mates.

"We've got his number!" yelled Larry, doing a jig on the coaching lines.