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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76584 ***</div>
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<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="noi halftitle">LEFTY O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<figure class="figcenter" id="i_frontispiece">
<img src="images/i_frontispiece.jpg" alt="" title="">
<figcaption class="caption">
<p class="noic"><a href="#Page_43">THERE WAS A SHARP, CLEAN CRACK, AND THE HORSEHIDE
WENT HUMMING INTO THE OUTFIELD.</a></p>
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</figure>
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<div class="chapter">
<h1>LEFTY<br>
O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS</h1>
<p class="noic">BY</p>
<p class="noi author">BURT L. STANDISH</p>
<p class="noi works">Author of “Lefty o’ the Bush,” “Lefty o’ the Big<br>
League,” “Lefty o’ the Training Camp.”</p>
<p class="p4 noic"><i>ILLUSTRATED</i></p>
<p class="p6 noic"><span class="adauthor">GROSSET & DUNLAP</span><br>
PUBLISHERS<span class="sp2em"> </span>NEW YORK</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="noic"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1914, by</span><br>
GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span></p>
<hr class="r20">
<p class="noic"><i>All Rights Reserved</i></p>
<p class="p6 noic"><i>Printed in the United States of America</i></p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<table>
<colgroup>
<col style="width: 20%;">
<col style="width: 70%;">
<col style="width: 10%;">
</colgroup>
<tr>
<th class="pr smfontr">CHAPTER</th>
<th class="tdl"> </th>
<th class="smfontr">PAGE</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">I</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">The Unlucky Seventh</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">11</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">II</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">Stopping a Rally</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">19</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">III</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">Tied In the Eighth</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">24</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">IV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Real Pitching</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">33</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">V</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">One For Lefty</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">39</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">VI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">A Summons from the Manager</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">45</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">VII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">A Girl and the Girl</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">52</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">VIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">At the Theater</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">59</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">IX</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">“In Bad”</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">68</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">X</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">The Grouch</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">78</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">On the Raw Edge</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">85</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Uncertainty</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">90</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Suspense</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">96</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XIV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">A Wild Heave</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">102</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Thrown Away</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">108</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XVI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">Hot Words</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">113</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XVII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">The Unapproachable Locke</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">120</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XVIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">Under a Cloud</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">127</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XIX</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">The Stranger</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">136</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XX</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">The Retired Manager</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">144</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">Back In the Game</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">150</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">Building Up the Team</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">155</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">The Man Who Denied Himself</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">161</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXIV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">Perplexed</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">167</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">Stranger Gets a Job</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">173</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXVI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">Mighty Queer</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">179</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXVII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">Did He Remember?</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">184</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXVIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">A New Pitcher</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">192</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXIX</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">At the Field</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">199</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXX</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">Baseball Luck</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">206</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">Pitchers’ Waterloo</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">212</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">Filling the Breach</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">218</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">The Man on the Mound</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">222</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXIV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">The Other Pitcher</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">227</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">The Steal Home</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">233</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXVI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">Stranger Is Annoyed</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">238</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXVII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">The Doctor’s Doubts</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">244</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXVIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">First Position</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">249</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XXXIX</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">A Troubled Mind</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">256</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XL</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XL">The Reporter</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">262</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XLI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">The Man Who Knew</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">266</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XLII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">Failure</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">271</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XLIII</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">The Come-back</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">274</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XLIV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">Back to His Own</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">280</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XLV</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">The Girls In the Box</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">287</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XLVI</td>
<td class="tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">The Game of His Life</a></td>
<td class="tdrb">292</td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span></p>
<p class="noi title" id="LEFTY">LEFTY
O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS</p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I<br>
<small>THE UNLUCKY SEVENTH</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">It was “Bush” Aldrich, of the Specters, who
started the trouble by smashing out a two-base
hit in the seventh. Bush was one of
the latest acquisitions of that hard-hitting,
snappy, scrappy aggregation of Big League talent
which had fought its way into the first division,
and was giving last season’s pennant
winners, the Blue Stockings, a decidedly uncomfortable
time holding their all too scanty lead.</p>
<p>Bush had already shown his ability to stay with
fast company by getting two clean singles off
Grist, the Blue Stocking twirler, but fine fielding
had prevented either bingle from being effective.
Now, however, with one out, and a man on first
and third, either through luck or cleverness, he
hit again at the psychological moment to cause a
break in the hard-fought game.</p>
<p>Grist, sure that he had fathomed the youngster’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span>
weakness, tried his sharp outdrop, which
had pulled the right fielder more than once before.
This time, however, Aldrich was ready for it.
Poising a bat that was a bit longer than any he
had used before, he stepped in as the ball curved
and smote it a crack which brought half the spectators
in the crowded stands to their feet with a
concerted gasp of dismay.</p>
<p>As the sphere whistled out on a line, Larry Dalton,
the Blue Stocking second baseman, flung up
his hands in a ludicrous gesture of despair.
Brock, the slim, speedy center fielder, had already
turned his back on the home plate, and was flying
toward the fence like a deer that has heard the
whistling whine of a hunter’s bullet. Unfortunately,
the ball held up better than he expected,
and, though he strained every nerve, he saw that
there was little chance to make the catch.</p>
<p>With a last desperate spurt, he launched himself
through the air like a catapult, both hands
outstretched. The horsehide struck the ends of
his fingers, and a despairing groan rose from the
staring fans as it fell to the ground and rolled to
one side.</p>
<p>Brock snatched it up, and whipped it back into
the diamond. Bugs Murray was just jogging
over the plate. Logie, the Specter shortstop, had
rounded second, and was flying toward third,
urged on by staccato promptings from the coaching<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span>
line. Aldrich was fairly tearing up the
ground between first and second. As the sphere
came whirling toward the waiting Dalton’s eager
hands, Bush slid.</p>
<p>The umpire, squatting to watch the play, put
his hand out, palm downward; and another groan
arose from the stands, punctuated, by protesting
yells and bitter comment.</p>
<p>“They’re gone!” shouted the Specter captain
joyously. “They’re up in the air! Hit her on
the nose, Rowdy; you can do it!”</p>
<p>Kenyon, the visitors’ clever second baseman,
pranced, grinning, to the plate, seemingly inspired
with new life. Grist caught the ball deftly, apparently
undisturbed by the unfortunate break.
As he paused to drive Logie back to third, however,
he discovered that Carson, the new manager,
had left the coaching line and returned to
the bench, from which he could get an accurate
view of the entire field.</p>
<p>“He needn’t worry,” muttered the pitcher to
himself, as he turned back to face the smiling batter.
“We’re still one run to the good, and this
little flurry is going to have the kibosh put on it
right here and now.”</p>
<p>He had little fear of Kenyon doing anything;
so far Rowdy’s hitting had been of a decidedly
negligible quality. Perhaps it was this touch
of unconscious carelessness which proved Pete<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span>
Grist’s undoing; perhaps it was due simply to
the mysterious hitting streak which comes at the
most unexpected times, and without apparent reason.
At all events, after playing the waiting
game to the last moment, Kenyon finally smashed
a sizzler through the short field, scoring Logie,
and himself reaching first by a great sprint.</p>
<p>Instantly the entire Specter visiting team began
openly to rejoice:</p>
<p>“Up in a balloon!” “Got him going!”
“Here’s where we lock it up in a valise!” “Murder
it, Ted, old man!” “Laminate it! Only one
down, you know.”</p>
<p>A low, concerted growl began to sound from
the spectators who crowded the stands. Ready
to shout themselves hoarse for a man pitching a
winning game, their displeasure was even more
swift, and quite without mercy. Here and there
a shrill voice bawled admonition and biting criticism,
which sounded above the barking chorus of
the Blue Stocking infield:</p>
<p>“Get into him, Pete, old man!”</p>
<p>“Kill him, old boy! You can do it!”</p>
<p>“Warp ’em round his neck!”</p>
<p>A spot of red glowed dully in each tanned cheek
as Grist dug his copper toe clip into the earth
and cuddled the ball under his chin. The sudden
yelping from his teammates told the pitcher that
they were not sure of him. They were seeking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span>
to brace him up, as if he had been a raw recruit
instead of the bright particular star of the Blue
Stocking pitching staff. Moreover his quick eye
had not failed to notice the hasty appearance of
two men from the sheltered players’ bench, who
loped off to the right, shedding sweaters as they
went.</p>
<p>There are times when it takes very little to upset
the equilibrium of the most seasoned twirler,
and apparently this was one of them. For six innings
Grist had pitched an almost errorless game,
and there was every reason why he should do his
best to finish it.</p>
<p>Dillon was laid up, Bill Orth had a bad shoulder,
and both Reilly and Lumley were notoriously independable
at a moment like this. There was
Lefty Locke, to be sure, but the thought of this
brilliant young southpaw who had, in a few short
months, pushed his way upward until he rivaled
Grist himself in the esteem of players and fans
alike, made the older pitcher squirm inwardly,
and brought a dogged, determined expression to
his face.</p>
<p>A moment later there was a crack, a yell of joy
from the Specters, a groan from the despairing
fans. In spite of his self-control, a smothered
gasp of dismay burst from Grist’s lips. Knowing
Red Callahan’s impetuosity, he had tried to
tempt him with a teasing outdrop. That he managed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span>
to connect with it was probably quite as
much a surprise to the sorrel-topped third baseman
as to anyone; but connect he did in beautiful
style, smashing out a single which sent Aldrich
across the rubber with the leading run.</p>
<p>Above the uproar of hoots and yells and catcalls
from the stands, the new manager, half rising
to signal Orth to go into the box, heard a
sound he had rather been expecting for the past
few minutes:</p>
<p>“Carson! One moment!”</p>
<p>It was the sharp, incisive voice of the Blue
Stockings’ owner, who sat with his daughter in
one of the boxes just behind the bench, and there
was an imperative note in it which brought the
manager hurrying in that direction.</p>
<p>“Did you call me, Mr. Collier?” he asked, as
he reached the box.</p>
<p>The tall, broad-shouldered, keen-faced man
bent swiftly over the railing.</p>
<p>“I did,” he replied, in a low tone. “Grist is
going to pieces. Why don’t you take him out?”</p>
<p>“I was just going to. I’ve had Orth warming
up for three or four minutes.”</p>
<p>Charles Collier frowned. “Orth!” he exclaimed.
“But his shoulder’s lame. This is no
time to put in a cripple. Why don’t you use your
southpaw, Locke?”</p>
<p>“He pitched a hard game yesterday and—”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span></p>
<p>“And won it,” interrupted the owner swiftly.</p>
<p>“Quite so; but my idea was not to work him too
hard,” returned the manager suavely. “Of
course, if you wish it—”</p>
<p>“I do. In my opinion he’s the only man who
can stop the break and pull things together. He’s
got the measure of every one of these fellows. I
don’t think you need worry about three innings
hurting his arm.”</p>
<p>“Very well,” said Carson. “I’ll send him out
there at once.”</p>
<p>His expression was bland and pleasant, but the
instant his back was turned he frowned. “Butting
in as soon as this, are you?” he muttered,
striding toward the bench. “Picked a favorite
already, too. I s’pose Pete’ll be sore as a crab,
but it can’t be helped. Locke!”</p>
<p>There was a quick movement, and from the
players’ bench appeared a tall, lithe, cleanly built,
long-armed youngster of twenty-three or so, his
cap pushed back on a mass of heavy, dark brown
hair, a look of inquiry in his keen, brown eyes.</p>
<p>“Want me?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Carson sharply. “Get into the
box as quick as you can. I meant to use Orth, but
his shoulder’s bad. You’ll have to go in without
warming up. And hold ’em, kid. We can’t afford
to lose this game, you know.”</p>
<p>Lefty had already yanked off his sweater.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span>
Even as the manager finished, he caught the glove
tossed out by the second catcher.</p>
<p>“I’ll do my best,” he returned, jerking his cap
forward over his eyes.</p>
<p>An instant later he was walking out upon the
diamond with a lithe, springy stride which told
of splendid muscles under perfect control. And
as he came into view of the grandstand, the hoots
and yells lessened swiftly, merging with amazing
abruptness into a shout of delight, accompanied
by a thunderous stamping of feet.</p>
<p>“Oh, you Lefty!” shrieked the fans fondly.
“Oh, you kiddo! Kill ’em! Eat ’em alive!
Nothin’ doin’ now, Specters. Good night for
yours!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II<br>
<small>STOPPING A RALLY</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">By dint of playing for time, and putting
over a couple of wide ones, Pete Grist had
prevented Forbes, the Specter left fielder,
from adding to the damage already done. Knowing
that he would be taken out, he had the wit to
seize every possible chance to delay the game,
and thus run no risk of making any further errors.</p>
<p>He supposed, however, that his successor would
be Orth, whom he had seen start to warm up a
few minutes before. When Lefty appeared on
the field amid the delighted roars of the spectators,
Grist’s face turned a brick red, and for a
second or two he looked as if he could have committed
murder with the greatest possible enjoyment.</p>
<p>It is provoking enough, in all conscience, for
a pitcher to have to leave the box on account of
bad control. But to be superseded by a youngster
whose Big League experience is limited to a few
months, yet who, in that time, had set the fans
yelling for him as if he were a Mathewson, is sufficiently<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span>
humiliating to stir the mildest man to
wrath.</p>
<p>Mildness was not Pete Grist’s long suit, nor
was this the first time he had writhed in the grip
of the green-eyed monster. As Locke reached
him his face was like a thundercloud. He fairly
flung the ball at the southpaw, and, without a
word, turned on his heel and strode toward the
bench.</p>
<p>Lefty stood for an instant staring after him,
a touch of sympathy in his eyes. He knew from
experience precisely how it felt to be benched under
such circumstances.</p>
<p>“Tough luck,” he murmured, as he mounted
the hill. “I don’t blame him for being sore. I
would myself.”</p>
<p>Directly, however, he had thrust the disgruntled
pitcher from his mind, and was bringing all
his skill and cunning to bear on the task before
him. He knew the importance of winning the
game to-day. It was one of those close seasons,
with three teams fighting like bulldogs for first
place.</p>
<p>At first the struggle had seemed to lie between
the Blue Stockings and their old-time rivals, the
Hornets. Well into July these two organizations
had it nip and tuck, and the Blue Stockings had
no sooner forged definitely ahead than they were
menaced by the speedy Specters, who were playing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span>
this year as they had never played before.
Back and forth they zigzagged, until at length
the Blue Stockings, thanks in no small measure
to the astonishing work of their young southpaw
wonder, managed to accumulate a scanty lead,
and hold it by the skin of their teeth.</p>
<p>If they could only manage to pull through this
series in good shape, they could afford to lose a
game or two of the return series, and still enter
on the last Western circuit with a slight advantage.</p>
<p>Lefty lined a few to Dirk Nelson, and, having
found the plate, nodded to the batter, who stepped
up to the rubber again. The Blue Stockings’
owner had been right in saying that Locke had
taken the measure of the opposing team. The
ability to size up swiftly and accurately a batter’s
strong and weak points, likes and dislikes, was
something which had contributed much to the
southpaw’s extraordinary success. He believed
he knew the sort of ball Forbes could not hit
safely; and promptly, though without any appearance
of haste, he proceeded to hand it up.</p>
<p>To the delight of the fans, the batter missed.
The second one he fouled. Then he let two go
by. Finally he missed again, having been fooled
at last by a sudden change of pace and a slow
drop when he expected speed. As he sauntered
toward the bench in elaborate affectation of indifference,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span>
the spectators chortled gleefully, while
a ripple of returning confidence swept over the
Blue Stocking players.</p>
<p>“Never mind that!” cried Murray, the visitors’
captain, from the coaching line. “Get off
that hassock, Rowdy. On your toes! Now, Jim,
let’s have one of the old-timers mother used to
make.”</p>
<p>Donovan, the famous Specter twirler, was also
a clever stickman. During the past season his
hitting average had been little short of the three-hundred
mark, and he was especially noted for
helping along a streak of luck. He walked up to
the plate, bat swinging nonchalantly, on his face
that confident grin which annoys many a pitcher
who pretends that he is not disturbed.</p>
<p>Lefty eyed him coolly for an instant; then his
eyes dropped to where Nelson crouched, giving a
signal. He shook his head. With some slight reluctance,
the catcher responded by calling for
another ball, and shifted his position the barest
trifle. A second later the sphere came whistling,
with a slight inswerve, across the batter’s shoulders.
Forbes’ bat found nothing but empty air.</p>
<p>“Str-r-rike!” called the umpire, flinging up his
right hand.</p>
<p>“Look out for those, Jim,” called Murray.
“Make ’em be good!”</p>
<p>Donovan let the next one pass. It was a ball.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span>
Then followed a slow one, delivered with a swing
and snap that fooled the batter into striking before
the lingering, tantalizing horsehide was
within reach.</p>
<p>Donovan frowned and regained his balance, annoyed
slightly by the burst of raucous delight
from the stands. When he faced the pitcher
again the grin still curved his lips, but it had
grown somewhat thin.</p>
<p>Silence settled over the field. Ten thousand
straining eyes were turned anxiously on the quiet
figure in the pitcher’s box.</p>
<p>Lefty’s hand drew back slowly, cuddling the
ball for a second as he poised himself on one foot.
Then, like a flash, his long left arm swung flail
like through the air.</p>
<p>The ball was high—almost too high, it seemed
at first. But suddenly it flashed downward past
Donovan’s shoulders, and across his breast. Too
late the batter saw it drop, and tried weakly to
hit. There was a swish, a plunk, and—</p>
<p>“Batter’s out!” bawled the umpire.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br>
<small>TIED IN THE EIGHTH</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">“Pretty work,” commented a blond
young man on the reporter’s bench,
pushing back his rakish green hat.
“There’s one thing about Locke, you can always
bank on his using his head. He certainly stopped
that rally in great shape.”</p>
<p>“Huh!” grunted the stout, bald man beside
him. “I can’t see anything very wonderful in
that.” He took off his glasses, and began to polish
them. “It don’t take any extraordinary
amount of skill to outguess Forbes, and Donovan’s
never very dangerous to a pitcher who
knows him.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come now, Eckstein,” protested the blond
reporter. “Jim’s no slouch at the bat, and you
know it. What have you got against Locke, anyhow?”</p>
<p>Eckstein replaced his glasses, and yawned.
“Nothing special, Dyer,” he drawled. “I’ve
been too long in the business, though, to lose my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span>
head over every infant phenom who butts into
the Big League. More than half of ’em can’t
keep up the pace they set themselves at first.”</p>
<p>“I’ll bet Locke does,” Dyer said energetically.
“He’s got too much sense to use himself up the
way some of the cubs do. He plays the game for
all there is in it, but he plays it with his head
even more than with that corking portside hooker
of his. Anyhow, he’s the Blue Stockings’ one
best bet this season, take it from me, Eck. Only
for him they’d be in the second division, with all
this monkey business of new owner and new manager
right in the middle of the season. That
plays hob with a team even if the old manager’s a
bum, which Jack Kennedy wasn’t, by a long shot.
By the way, Eck, where’s he gone?”</p>
<p>“Who? Kennedy?” grunted the stout man,
his eyes fixed on the diamond. “Back to his farm,
I reckon. He’s got one somewhere in the Middle
West.—Pretty work, Jim. That’s the way to pull
’em.”</p>
<p>With a sudden flush at the realization that he
had missed a trick, the young reporter hastily
subsided, and turned his attention to the diamond.
Whatever might be said of Jim Donovan’s
hitting ability, no fault could be found with
his skill in the box. Encouraged by the success
of the last inning, he evidently realized that it was
up to him to see that the Specters kept their lead<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span>
of one run, and the result was an exhibition of
clever pitching.</p>
<p>Dirk Nelson, the Blue Stocking backstop, was
beguiled into popping to second. Jack Daly, unsurpassed
as a third baseman, but an erratic
stickman, fanned ignominiously. It looked as if
Lefty would follow Daly’s example, but, with two
and two called, he connected with a tricky drop,
and beat the ball to first by a hair. Taking a good
lead, he went down on the second ball pitched to
Spider Grant. It was effort wasted, however,
for the Blue Stocking first baseman presently
fouled out back of third. This brought the inning
to an abrupt termination, amid much rejoicing
on the part of the visitors, and low grumbling
from the disappointed fans.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Dyer defensively, “it was the tail
end of the list. Anyhow, Locke got a hit.”</p>
<p>Eckstein chuckled. It amused the veteran
newspaper man to note the violent fancies and
prejudices of callow cub reporters.</p>
<p>“Still harping on the virtues of your miraculous
southpaw?” he smiled. “I’ll ask you just
one question, Dyer: If he’s such a triple-plated
wonder, how did Jim Brennan, of the Hornets,
come to release him outright? I never yet knew
the hard-headed old vet to let any ten-thousand-dollar
beauties slip through his fingers.”</p>
<p>“Still something to learn, Eck, strange as that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span>
may seem,” drawled a voice, before Dyer had
time to answer. “Squeeze up a bit, and give a
chap some room.”</p>
<p>A leg was thrust over the back of the seat, followed
swiftly by another, and, as Eckstein’s eyes
lighted upon the tanned and freckled face of
the newcomer, his own face expanded in a fat
smile.</p>
<p>“Well, well, well!” he chuckled, thrusting out
a plump hand. “Back to the treadmill, eh?
Have a good vacation?”</p>
<p>“Fine!” returned Jack Stillman, settling down
between the two. “How are you, Dyer? Spent
ten days up in the woods about a thousand miles
away from anywhere, and then I began to get
worried for fear this understudy of mine wasn’t
sending the dope in right. How about it, kid?
Old man have any kicks?”</p>
<p>“A few,” grunted the cub reporter. “He’d
kick if he had the Angel Gabriel writing up
games.”</p>
<p>“You bet he would!” laughed Stillman.
“Swell lot Gabriel knows about baseball. Did I
hear you running down my friend Locke?” he
went on, turning to Eckstein. “Oh, I know you
didn’t mean anything personal. It’s just your
pessimistic mind, that can’t see anything good
in a youngster. Well, let me tell you what
Jim Brennan said the last time I saw him, which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span>
was about three weeks ago. ‘Jack,’ he said—it
was after that last game of the series with the
Blue Stockings when the Hornets got the pants
licked off ’em—‘Jack,’ he said, ‘don’t send this
to your paper, but if ever there was a dumb one
manhandling a baseball team I’m it. I’d give
two of my best men to have Lefty Locke back
again. If I hadn’t been such a thick-headed dope
as to let him go, the Hornets wouldn’t be where
they are to-day. No, sir! They’d be at the top
of the heap, with that position just about nailed.
That boy’s a wonder. It makes me sick at the
stomach every time I think he might be on my
payroll to-day just as well as not.’ That’s going
pretty strong for old sorrel-top, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“A trifle,” Eckstein returned. “Well, why
did he let him go? There must have been some
mighty good reason.”</p>
<p>“There was. A rotten sneak named Elgin—a
Princeton man, by the way, and a disgrace to
the college—had it in for Lefty, and turned every
dirty trick he could think of to put Locke in
bad with Brennan. He succeeded temporarily,
but he got his at last. After Brennan released
him Lefty went to the Blue Stockings, and of
course the first time Jim ran up against them he
realized how he’d been fooled. It all came out,
and he sent Elgin back into Class C with the
Lobsters. I’ve heard Elgin didn’t even stay<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span>
there, but is pitching back in the bush, which, if
true, is good enough for him.</p>
<p>“By Jove! See that drop? Fooled him nicely,
didn’t it?”</p>
<p>If Donovan was on his mettle, the opposing
southpaw was in equally fine trim. In the first
of the eighth only four men faced him, in spite of
the fact that the heavy hitters were coming up
again.</p>
<p>“Don’t seem to have lost any of his cunning,”
smiled Stillman, as the Blue Stockings romped
in from the field like colts. “Things appear to
have been didding while I was gone,” he went on
in a lower tone to Eckstein. “I knew Collier was
dickering for the team, but I thought he’d hold
off till the end of the season. And what in thunder
does he mean by canning a manager like Jack
Kennedy?”</p>
<p>The stout man shrugged his shoulders. “Collier
got the idea that the team wasn’t pulling well.
He seemed to think that was Kennedy’s fault.”</p>
<p>“Bah!” snapped Stillman. “What could Kennedy
do with his hands tied? I know for a fact
that when he wanted to get rid of a certain trouble-maker
who was keeping the boys riled up all
the time, Beach, the old owner, put his foot down,
and wouldn’t let him. And what’s Al Carson
ever done, anyhow, that he should supersede an
experienced man like Kennedy?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span></p>
<p>“Not much,” admitted Eckstein.</p>
<p>“Nor ever will. He’s one of those promising
characters who’s always promising and never
making good. Collier has sure picked a lemon
this time, and it wouldn’t surprise me a lot if it
cost him dear.</p>
<p>“Now, fellows, get busy, and hammer out a
couple of runs. Only need one to tie, and two to
win.”</p>
<p>All over the great stands men were rooting for
runs—begging, pleading, crying for them. As
Donovan stepped into his box a perfect bedlam of
hoots and catcalls arose, but he was too old a bird
to be affected in the least by this sort of thing.
To win the game it was only necessary to hold the
Blue Stockings for this inning and the next, and
the clever Specter twirler looked as if shutting
out his opponents was, at this precise moment,
merely a matter of time with him.</p>
<p>In baseball, as in many other things, it never
pays to discount the future; which is just as well,
for otherwise a good deal of thrill and excitement
would be lost. The best players are certain sometimes
to make mistakes, and countless games have
been won or lost by little slips, so small as to pass
unnoticed by the majority of spectators.</p>
<p>Rufe Hyland, well known as a “waiter,” was
the first man up. In spite of the frantic urgings
of the excited fans to “Slug it out!” he delayed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span>
until he had three and two on him. Finally he
hit between first and second. He should have
been an easy victim at first, but, for some unaccountable
reason, Rowdy Kenyon juggled the ball,
and then threw low, dragging Murray off the sack.</p>
<p>For a moment or two the entire infield resounded
with sulphurous comment. When Donovan
faced the next batter he was still flushed
with irritation. He took revenge by fanning
Larry Dalton, but during that process Hyland
managed to steal second, a proceeding which
did not tend to increase the pitcher’s good humor.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, he retained a perfect grip on his
feelings, and exerted his skill so well that Herman
Brock whiffed fruitlessly at three balls in
succession.</p>
<p>It happened, however, that Joe Welsh, who followed,
was one of the most dependable hitters in
the Blue Stocking organization. His specialty
was neither home runs nor three-baggers, but his
skill at placing the ball had long been a source of
comfort to his fellow-players. As he faced the
plate, Hyland edged off second as far as he dared,
and when Joe connected with the third ball pitched
Rufe shot down the line like a streak.</p>
<p>Due, no doubt, to Donovan’s skill, this was one
of the rare occasions that Welsh slipped up. He
had intended to dump the pill into the diamond<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span>
by a bunt, but he succeeded only in sending it
spinning erratically just inside the third-base line.</p>
<p>Like a flash the Specter backstop raced out,
snatched at it, fumbled horribly, and then, in an
effort to get Hyland, threw four feet over the
third baseman’s head. By the time the left
fielder, slow in backing up, had secured the sphere,
and lined it back to the plate, Hyland had one
foot on the rubber. And the delirious fans were
shrieking themselves speechless.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV<br>
<small>REAL PITCHING</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">“Talk about horseshoes!” grinned Stillman,
when the first mad uproar had begun
to lessen. “That’s the greatest
ever. Looks as if the boys had a mighty good
chance of cinching the game now.”</p>
<p>Manager Carson had emerged from the obscurity
of the bench, and was on the coaching line
again. Over by first base Captain Grant was capering
about, a broad grin on his face.</p>
<p>“Going up, going up, going up!” he chanted
to the air of a popular ditty. “Tied her nicely,
but we won’t stop there. You know what to do,
Kid. Beat it off that cushion, Joe!”</p>
<p>Kid Lewis hustled to the plate, and Welsh
pranced away from the sack, ready to go down
on the first slim chance. Unfortunately for the
Blue Stockings, Donovan seemed unaffected by
the two blazing errors which had permitted the
locals to even up the tally. Instead of going to
pieces, he tightened up wonderfully, holding
Welsh at first, and fanning the batter with swiftness
and dispatch.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span></p>
<p>As the Blue Stockings took the field for the
opening of the ninth the fans were on tiptoe with
excitement. If Lefty could hold the visitors
down, there remained a chance for the home team
to break the deadlock in the last half. Could he
hold them?</p>
<p>Bush Aldrich was the first man up. The crowd
remembered vividly what Bush had done to Pete
Grist. Besides, the batters who followed were
none of them slouches. As Locke walked briskly
across the diamond the stands echoed with encouraging,
beseeching shouts. Then a sudden,
tense silence fell upon the great inclosure.</p>
<p>Calm and steady, Lefty stepped into the box.
He paused a second, his eyes on the batter, and
then handed up a high one. Aldrich started to
strike, but checked himself, and a ball was called.
Then the southpaw tried an outcurve. Bush still
declined to bite.</p>
<p>“That’s right, Bush,” cried Murray. “Make
him put ’em over. He’s got to.”</p>
<p>An elusive drop followed, which Aldrich barely
missed. The next ball looked good, and he hit it.
It was a line drive to right, which Rufe Hyland
should have taken with ease, instead of muffing.
Aldrich stretched himself, and reached the initial
sack a second before the ball, quickly recovered
and thrown by the discomfited fielder, spanked
into Spider Grant’s mitt.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span></p>
<p>There was a groan from the fans, a spasm of
joy from the Specter coachers. Rowdy Kenyon
hurried to the plate. True to his record as a
waiter, he prolonged the agony till the last moment,
during which time Aldrich, upholding the
reputation of his team for being “ghosts on the
bases,” got down to second. Finally the visiting
infielder hit a weak scratch between second
and short, on which he reached first by great
sprinting. A wave of tense uneasiness swept over
the field.</p>
<p>Lefty’s eyes narrowed the least bit; his jaw
seemed to tighten. In a few minutes, through no
fault of his, the situation had changed from easy
security to uncertain hazard. With none out, and
a man on third, every bit of judgment and skill
he possessed was needed to save the day. Driving
Aldrich back with a threatening motion, he
turned his attention to Callahan, and the impetuous
Specter Irishman, after fouling twice, failed
to touch a speedy shoot that clipped a corner.</p>
<p>A gasp of relief came from the stands, but
lapsed swiftly into tense silence; for this was an
admirable opportunity to try the squeeze play,
and evidently from the way John Forbes held his
bat he meant to do his part.</p>
<p>The infield crept into the diamond, balancing
on their toes, alert and ready. Lefty pitched, and
almost as soon as the ball left his hand he was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span>
on the jump. Forbes shortened his bat, and
chopped one down the foul line straight into the
flying pitcher’s glove on the first bound. Lefty
Locke flashed it to third. But, for some reason,
Aldrich had faltered, and now he dove back to the
sack in time to save himself.</p>
<p>“Safe!” bawled the umpire, his flat hand extended.</p>
<p>The decision brought an avalanche of hoots and
yells and taunting insults down upon his head, but
he stuck to it; and when the fans settled back to
take count their hearts sank within them. With
the bases full and only one out, the situation was
not exactly hopeful.</p>
<p>Lefty made short work of Donovan. The visiting
pitcher did not touch the ball once, missing
the last bender by more than a foot. As he
strolled back to the bench, however, there were
few sounds of rejoicing. The end of the batting
list had been reached. The bases were still
densely populated, and Dutch Schwartz, the
mighty hitter whose average the year before had
come close to equaling that of the amazing Wagner,
was sauntering out with his war club.</p>
<p>Apparently he had no weaknesses with the stick,
and his ability to outguess pitchers had made him
a terror throughout the Big League. Cautious
twirlers usually walked him when it was possible
to do so at a dangerous time without forcing a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span>
run; but, even had he wished to do it, such a
course was not open to Lefty now.</p>
<p>Whatever anxiety the southpaw might have
been feeling, he faced the batter without a tremor.
The first ball was a trifle close, and Schwartz let
it pass without suffering a penalty. The next,
delivered with a long side swing, came over at an
odd angle. The batter fouled it, evening up the
score.</p>
<p>Lefty then tried an underhanded delivery that
was productive of another foul. Then the big
Specter center fielder refused to nibble at a
coaxer, which evened things once more.</p>
<p>“Two and two,” muttered Stillman on the reporters’
bench. “I wonder if he’ll do it? By
Jove! He’s got to!”</p>
<p>With anxious, admiring eyes he watched his
friend’s cool, deliberate, yet not in the least dragging,
work. Lefty’s perfect control enabled him
to bend the ball over the rubber from any
angle.</p>
<p>Foul after foul resulted with a nerve-racking
regularity which brought the fans to the edges
of their seats in tense, breathless suspense.</p>
<p>Three balls were called, but the struggle continued.
With each swing of the southpaw’s long
arm, Schwartz swung his bat, and the ball caromed
off in a foul. One could almost have heard a pin
drop in the vast inclosure. Even the raucous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span>
voices of the coachers had been momentarily
stilled.</p>
<p>The end came at last, suddenly. When it
seemed almost certain that Locke had exhausted
every trick at his command, the pitcher, with his
toe on one end of the slab, stepped straight out
to one side with the other foot, and brought his
arm over. The ball left his fingers at the moment
when his hand seemed to be extended at full reach
above his head. Apparently it was not a curve
he threw, but from his extended fingers the sphere
shot downward on a slant, to cross the outside
corner of the plate.</p>
<p>Schwartz struck at it with a sharp, vicious snap—and
missed!</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V<br>
<small>ONE FOR LEFTY</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">The roar which went up fairly shook the
stands, and testified to a sudden slackening
of the tension which had been gripping
thousands of loyal fans for the past few
minutes. Jack Stillman leaned back in his seat
and reached for his cigarette case.</p>
<p>“Pretty smooth,” he said, proffering the case
to his companions. “That’s what I call pitching
out of a hole, and Phil can sure do it to beat the
cars.”</p>
<p>“Phil?” queried the cub reporter quickly. “Oh,
you mean Locke. I keep forgetting that isn’t his
real name.”</p>
<p>“So do I, to tell the truth,” returned Stillman,
drawing in a lungful of smoke. “He took it on
account of his father’s prejudice against baseball
when he started pitching in the bush last year.
When I ran into him this spring in the Hornets’
training camp it was hard as the mischief at first
to get used to hearing him called anything but
Hazelton. I got over that mighty quick, though,
and now it’s just the other way. Well,” he went<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span>
on, glancing at Eckstein, “if this doesn’t stir
the boys up enough to make them hammer out at
least one run, they’re not the crowd I take them
for.”</p>
<p>From the way things started, it looked very
much as if the newspaper man had gauged the
Blue Stockings correctly. After having two
strikes called, Dirk Nelson reached for one of
Donovan’s wide slants, and caught it on the end of
his bat for a nice single. The crowd roared, the
coachers chattered, and Jack Daly pranced to the
plate with every apparent intention of carrying
on the good work.</p>
<p>Unfortunately for him, the Specter twirler was
not quite ready for the stable. Coolly, and with
the consummate skill for which he was famous, he
lured Daly into swinging at a deceptive bender,
fooled him with a wonderful inshoot, and then,
when the batter, grown wary, refused to bite at
the doubtful ones, Donovan wound himself up and
sent over a curve which cut the heart of the plate.</p>
<p>With two and three called, Daly swung, with all
his might. There was a sharp crack, and the ball
sailed high in the air, foul back of third base.
Dillingham jerked off his mask, and started for
it, but Red Callahan’s spikes were already drumming
the turf as he raced to get under it. Heedless
of the shrill taunts and yells with which the
fans sought to make him fumble, he fairly flew<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span>
over the ground. He made the catch while
stretching himself to the utmost, and Daly, flinging
down his stick with a muttered exclamation
of disgust, slouched toward the bench.</p>
<p>“Never mind that!” cried Grant optimistically.
“Only one down, boys. Now, Lefty, old man, get
into him! We need a hit. Get off, Dirk! Get
going! Drift away from that sack, man! On
your toes, now!”</p>
<p>During Daly’s turn at bat Nelson had stolen
second, beating the catcher’s throw by a hair,
and now he pranced off the hassock, taking every
bit of lead he dared. Twice Kenyon darted behind
him, compelling the runner to dive back to
the cushion, but each time he was up and off again
the instant the ball was returned to Donovan.</p>
<p>Lefty stepped up to the plate and stood swinging
his bat gently back and forth. The shouts of
the excited fans seemed faint and far away. In
reality he heard them clearly, and was young
enough to be stimulated a little by this evidence
of faith in his ability. But he showed nothing
of this. His mind was occupied solely in trying
to fathom what Donovan would be likely to hand
him.</p>
<p>The first was an outcurve, and he let it pass.
The second was high; evidently Donovan was
trying to prevent a bunt. The third also seemed
high at first, but Lefty’s quick eyes saw it begin<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span>
to drop as it neared the plate, and he swung at
it.</p>
<p>In spite of his swiftness, however, he was a
fraction of a second too late. The ball hit his
bat glancingly and caromed at right angles. It
struck Locke’s head with force sufficient to make
him stagger backward, the stick slipping out of his
relaxed fingers.</p>
<p>A sharp, hissing intake of concern swept over
the crowded stands. As Lefty reeled, catcher and
umpire both leaped forward with outstretched
arms; but their aid was unnecessary. The southpaw
was conscious of a single brief instant of
blackness, which passed like a lightning flash,
leaving him a bit dizzy, but otherwise quite himself.</p>
<p>“I’m all right, Spider,” he said quickly, as the
Blue Stocking captain rushed up and slipped an
arm about him. “It was only a glancing tap.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” persisted Grant anxiously.
“Hadn’t you better lay off, and let me run someone
else in to bat for you?”</p>
<p>Lefty laughed aloud, and took his stick from
Dillingham. “Not on your life!” he retorted
emphatically. “Think I’m going to quit <em>now</em>?”</p>
<p>As if to prove that the accident amounted to
nothing, he shook off the captain’s detaining hand,
stepping quickly back to the rubber. The fans<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span>
shouted their relief and their appreciation of
Lefty’s nerve. Donovan’s face wore a slightly
strained look. Though no stretching of the imagination
could have laid a shred of blame upon
his shoulders, the hitting of a batter often disturbs
a pitcher’s nerve. This may have had some
effect on his next delivery, or may not. At all
events, when Locke swung at the ball in fine
shape, <a href="#i_frontispiece">there was a sharp, clean crack, and the
horsehide went humming into the outfield</a> midway
between Aldrich and Schwartz.</p>
<p>With a concerted roar, which eclipsed every
sound that had gone before, the great mass of
people crowding the stands leaped to their feet,
and followed with straining eyes the progress
of the tiny sphere of white. Away it sped to
the right of deep center, both fielders racing like
mad to get under it.</p>
<p>Having a big lead to start with, Nelson was
off like a streak of light for third. He had
crossed the base, and was being urged on down
the home stretch before Schwartz snatched up the
horsehide, whirled, and sent it whizzing straight
toward the plate, with that wonderful sweep of
his powerful arm for which he was famous.</p>
<p>It was a perfect throw. For a second or two
thousands of hearts stood still, fearing it would
be successful. Locke’s brain and muscle had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span>
done its work well, however. An instant before
the ball plunked into the catcher’s waiting mitt
Nelson flung himself across the rubber in a cloud
of dust, and the umpire shouted:</p>
<p>“Safe!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI<br>
<small>A SUMMONS FROM THE MANAGER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Lefty, having rounded first, pulled himself
up abruptly, and trotted toward the clubhouse,
the whoops and yells of many
thousand delirious baseball “bugs” ringing in his
ears. A wave of white-clad players surged after
him, but Locke had almost reached the gate before
the crest of it overtook him. An expression
of happy contentment illumined most of the faces.
“Laughing” Larry Dalton, the happy-go-lucky,
brown-eyed second baseman, was grinning broadly
as he flung one arm over the southpaw’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Pretty punk to-day,” he chuckled. “Can’t
hit, or put the ball over—or anything.”</p>
<p>“Perfectly rotten, he is,” chimed in Dirk Nelson,
still breathing a bit unevenly from his rapid
sprint to the plate. “Carson oughta tie the can
on him for the rest of the season.”</p>
<p>Lefty chaffed back, and the whole crowd, laughing
and joshing like a lot of kids, pushed into the
clubhouse. As they stripped off their soggy uniforms,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span>
and scrapped good-naturedly for the showers,
they whistled and sang light-heartedly, living
over the excitement of those last three innings.</p>
<p>There were one or two exceptions. Some of the
Blue Stockings’ old guard had viewed Locke’s
swift rise from the ranks with anything but favor.
In their opinion it was up to the busher to scrape
along in meek and lowly insignificance for a season
or two before he leaped into such scintillating
prominence in the galaxy of stars. According to
them, to “ripen” and acquire baseball sense he
should spend some months sitting on the bench
and watching the work of the veterans.</p>
<p>Lefty had upset every precedent. At each
added laurel won by the southpaw the old-timers
shook their heads dubiously, declaring that such
a pace could never last, that success would swell
the youngster’s head, and making a dozen other
pessimistic prophecies, none of which as yet
showed signs of coming true.</p>
<p>With the bulk of players Lefty was on the best
of terms. He found them a clean, decent crowd
of young men, much in love with their profession,
somewhat addicted to draw poker and craps as
a pastime, but temperate as a rule in most things,
generous to a fault, and very likable. Three of
them could write letters after their names as well
as before, if they chose—which they did not.
Some of the others were a bit rough on the surface,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span>
perhaps, but deep down underneath were
made of the right stuff.</p>
<p>The long, grilling struggle, which began with the
opening of the season, had brought them all very
close together; and when a crowd of men are fighting
shoulder to shoulder day after day, having
the same goal, each giving the best that is in him
to attain that end, they size up one another’s good
points and failings with a thoroughness possible
under few other conditions.</p>
<p>The new southpaw stood the test well. In spite
of his six generous feet of lithe, well-muscled
frame, he was still very much of a boy at heart,
with a boy’s adaptability for making friends and
a boy’s light-hearted, fun-loving nature.</p>
<p>This did not mean that he lacked the capacity
for taking things seriously when the need arose,
but he believed thoroughly in relaxing between
whiles, and in extracting all possible enjoyment
out of life. This trait, helped by a fine baritone
voice, quick wit, the ability to “put it over” any
member of the club with eight-ounce gloves, and
almost as great a skill in coaxing popular airs
from the strings of a banjo, made him, within
a month, the life of the bunch in Pullmans and
hotels on the road, no less than at odd moments
of relaxation in the clubhouse at home.</p>
<p>All this was, of course, of small importance
compared with his performance on the diamond.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span>
After he had proved his efficiency there, however,
by snatching victory from defeat in three or four
close contests, the majority of his teammates accepted
him without question as one who would
“do.” The only exceptions were Pete Grist,
whose fame as the most reliable member of the
Blue Stockings’ pitching staff Lefty was rapidly
dimming, and three or four old-timers who formed
a little clique among themselves.</p>
<p>“Pipe the old crab!” commented Larry Dalton,
as he and Lefty raced in from the showers, and
began to get into their street clothes. “Some
grouch there, believe me!”</p>
<p>Laughing Larry had stepped from a fresh-water
college into professional baseball three years before.
Being a natural player, he did not stay
long with the minors. In Locke he found a kindred
spirit, and the southpaw had not been more
than two weeks with the Blue Stockings before
the two were chumming it as if they had known
each other since the bottle days of infancy.</p>
<p>At his friend’s remark, Lefty glanced sideways
at the scowling pitcher, who was dragging on his
clothes in taciturn silence.</p>
<p>“Can’t blame him much,” he murmured. “If
there’s anything that makes a fellow feel rottener
than getting the hook in a game, it hasn’t come
my way yet.”</p>
<p>“Especially if the man who’s put in happens<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span>
to be a guy that’s made good in the same way before,”
Dalton grinned.</p>
<p>“Rot!” snorted Lefty, buttoning his shirt.
“When Grist’s right he can pitch the pants off
any man in the club.”</p>
<p>“Maybe.” Larry’s tone was decidedly skeptical.
“I haven’t noticed him putting anything
much over you the last month or more. Trouble
with him, he’s worrying for fear he’ll lose his
reputation of being the one and only genuine old
reliable; and when a guy starts in with that sort
of ragtime, you can be pretty blamed sure—
Well, Colonel, what’s on your mind?”</p>
<p>“Colonel” George Washington Jones, the Blue
Stockings’ negro rubber and general handy man,
showed his ivories in a glistening smile.</p>
<p>“Mist’ Carson says he done laik to see
Mist’ Locke in his office right smart, suh,” he explained.</p>
<p>“All right, Colonel,” Lefty returned briefly
from where he was struggling with a refractory
collar button. “I’ll be there in about three minutes.”</p>
<p>“Some class there,” Dalton murmured, as the
darky hurried away. “When Jack wanted a man
he’d stick his head in the door and make the fact
known. Nothing like that for this bird, though.
First thing you know he’ll be having a bell boy
in brass buttons, and one of those ‘Private-no-admission-except-by-appointment’<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span>
signs on the
door.”</p>
<p>From which it may be gathered that the new
manager and his methods had not scored a great
hit.</p>
<p>Lefty nodded agreement, and went on tying
his scarf. From the first Carson had not appealed
to him. The man knew baseball from the ground
up—there was no questioning that fact. His
ability at handling men, however, was much more
doubtful.</p>
<p>Most professional ball players have to be managed
with infinite tact and judgment, and, though
he kept his mouth shut on the subject, Lefty held
the opinion that the qualities which had made
Jack Kennedy so successful were lacking to a
conspicuous degree in his successor. So far the
players had betrayed no signs of a let-down, but
Locke had noticed a number of insignificant
straws, some no greater than the remark of
Laughing Larry, which pointed the direction of
the wind pretty accurately.</p>
<p>“I’ll wait for you,” Dalton said, as Locke
slipped into his coat and gave it a settling shake.
“Cut it as short as you can. Don’t forget we’ve
got tickets for the theater to-night.”</p>
<p>Nodding, the southpaw picked up his hat and
left the dressing room. As he walked briskly
toward the manager’s office he was wondering<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span>
with no little curiosity what was wanted. Carson
could scarcely mean to put him into the box to-morrow,
after having pitched him ten innings yesterday
and three to-day; and aside from that
Lefty could think of nothing which would require
a special interview.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII<br>
<small>A GIRL AND THE GIRL</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Pushing open the door in response to a
crisp invitation in the manager’s familiar
voice, Lefty stopped on the threshold, an
expression of surprise in his brown eyes. Then
he removed his hat, with a swift, graceful movement.</p>
<p>Carson was not alone. The owner of the club,
himself, leaned easily against one side of the desk.
Seated in a chair on the other side of the room
was one of the prettiest girls the young pitcher
had ever seen.</p>
<p>Lefty had only time to see that she was very
blond and very tiny, with a pair of wonderful
deep-blue eyes, which were fixed on his face from
the moment the door opened. Then Charles Collier
stepped forward, his hand outstretched.</p>
<p>“I want to thank you, Mr. Locke,” he said
heartily, “for pulling us out of a hole this afternoon.
It was especially nervy to keep on at the
bat after being hit by that ball.”</p>
<p>Lefty smiled as he shook the magnate’s hand.
“That little knock didn’t amount to anything,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span>
he protested, in his low, pleasant voice. “It only
staggered me for a second.”</p>
<p>“That was lucky,” said Collier. He hesitated,
and the pitcher saw his glance flash for a second
to the girl in the chair. “This is my daughter,”
he went on quickly. “Virginia, this is Mr. Locke,
whose pitching you were so enthusiastic about.”</p>
<p>Lefty, turning swiftly to acknowledge the introduction,
saw that the girl had risen to her feet
and was holding out her hand impulsively.</p>
<p>“I’m glad indeed to meet you, Mr. Locke,” she
said, in a pleasant voice, which held an undercurrent
of earnestness in it. “I suppose you get
very tired of being told how splendid your pitching
is, but I can’t help it this time.” She smiled
charmingly. “If you could have any idea how
utterly thrilled I was during those last three innings,
I’m sure you wouldn’t blame me.”</p>
<p>Her eyes, with their long, curling lashes, were
really very wonderful, and there was a trace of
something in their depths which brought a touch
of color glowing under Locke’s healthy tan.</p>
<p>“You’re more than kind, Miss Collier,” he returned.
“I don’t think any man really minds
being told that he’s done well, but in this case I
didn’t deserve much credit. You see, Grist held
them down for six innings, and when I came in
fresh at the seventh we were only one run to the
bad. It was still anybody’s game.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span></p>
<p>“How about yesterday?” asked the girl quickly.
“I wasn’t here, but they tell me you won the
game in spite of a lot of errors made by your
team.”</p>
<p>Lefty shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, that was
different. I hadn’t pitched before in a week. So
I was ready to sail in and massacre them.”</p>
<p>Miss Collier shook her head, laughing deliciously.
“I’m afraid you’re altogether too modest.
After this I’ll have to trust to someone else
for the real facts. All right, dad. I suppose it <em>is</em>
time we were going. Well, good-by, Mr. Locke.
I shall probably see you again. Now that I’m
back in town, I don’t mean to miss a game.”</p>
<p>Lefty murmured his pleasure in courteous, well-bred
terms, shook hands with her father, and,
when they had disappeared into the corridor, stood
for a second staring after them. When he turned
suddenly back to the manager he surprised on that
person’s face an expression of distinct annoyance,
mingled with disapproval.</p>
<p>“Is that all you wanted?” the southpaw asked
briefly.</p>
<p>“Yes,” retorted Carson, almost snappily. He
hesitated for an instant, and then went on abruptly,
his lips curling the least bit: “I s’pose
after this you’ll go around swelled out of all human
form.”</p>
<p>There was a decidedly sneering undercurrent in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span>
his voice, rasping Locke’s sensibilities, and making
it difficult for him to keep from flinging back
a sarcastic retort.</p>
<p>“Do you?” he murmured, with tantalizing coolness,
as he paused for a second in the doorway.
“Perhaps I will. After all, you couldn’t blame
me very much, you know.”</p>
<p>Dalton, waiting in the dressing room, at once
asked for details of what had happened in the
manager’s office. More for sport than any other
reason, Lefty kept him on the anxious seat all the
way back to the hotel, fully intending to tell him
while they were having dinner together. That
thought, as well as every other, was driven out
of his head, however, by a penciled message the
desk clerk handed him as he passed through the
lobby.</p>
<p>“Call Miss Harting, at 10224 Morris,” it read;
and the six commonplace words brought a rush
of vivid crimson to the pitcher’s face, a sparkle
of amazed delight into his eyes.</p>
<p>“Janet in town!” he muttered, as he eagerly
sought a telephone booth, leaving Dalton to stare
blankly after him. “Well, wouldn’t that get you!
Not a word about it in her last letter. I suppose
she wanted to work a surprise. She’s sure put
one over, all right.”</p>
<p>Hurriedly giving the operator the number, he
entered the booth, and, a few minutes later, heard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span>
the familiar tones of the “only girl in the world”
clearly over the wire.</p>
<p>Just what they said is neither here nor there.
The door of the booth was tightly closed, and if
the operator listened she did not betray the fact
by a sign. Lefty and Janet Harting, who lived
with her father in a thriving New England town,
had been very good friends indeed for something
more than a year. Though they corresponded
with extreme regularity, their positions made
actual meetings tantalizingly infrequent. Given
these premises, the reader may reconstruct their
conversation to suit himself.</p>
<p>Suffice it to say that Janet had come on to the
city for a two weeks’ visit to an aunt, leaving her
father, who was better than he had been in a good
many years, in the care of a distant cousin, who
had volunteered that office so that the daughter
might take a brief vacation. After retailing this
information, Miss Harting hinted delicately that
she would be at home all evening.</p>
<p>“I’ll be there with my hair in a braid!” Lefty
returned promptly. Then he stopped abruptly,
stung by sudden recollection.</p>
<p>“Sh!” reproved Janet, as a sibilant vibration
reached her attentive ears. “On the ’phone, too!
What’s the matter? Have you thought of an engagement?”</p>
<p>“Beg pardon,” apologized Lefty contritely.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span>
“It slipped out. Why, yes. You see, some of
the boys planned a little theater party to-night to
see ‘The Girl from Madrid,’ and they’ve got the
tickets. It doesn’t matter a bit, though. I’ll just
tell ’em I can’t go.”</p>
<p>“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Miss Harting’s
tone was emphatic. “I’m not going to have
you breaking engagements and throwing over
your friends for me. There’s plenty of time.
You can come and see me to-morrow.”</p>
<p>The young man protested vehemently, but Janet
remained quite firm. In the end she had her way,
though she compromised to some extent by saying
that Lefty could come up the next day and take
her out to lunch.</p>
<p>With this the young pitcher had to be content,
and, when he came to think it over, he was not
wholly sorry. The dinner and theater party had
been planned a week before to celebrate Larry
Dalton’s birthday, and, considering Dalton’s peculiar
sensitiveness, Lefty would have disliked being
reckoned a quitter on account of “a skirt.”
Besides, Janet would be in town long enough for
him to see her many times.</p>
<p>Comforted by this reflection, Locke paid the
triple call, made a bee-line for the elevator, and
five minutes later was hurrying into his evening
clothes.</p>
<p>“Moonlights?” Laughing Larry had chuckled,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span>
when the question of clothes was broached that
morning. “You bet! We’ll show this bunch of
city rounders how things ought to be done, eh?”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII<br>
<small>AT THE THEATER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">When the quartet piled into a taxi
about half past six, and started for
an exclusive downtown restaurant,
their appearance would have been a revelation to
those who picture a professional ball player as a
pugnacious, rough-mannered individual who fits
in well enough on the diamond but is quite out of
his element when he attempts anything in the
social line.</p>
<p>It would have been difficult, in fact, to find four
finer-looking specimens of manhood anywhere.
Their faces glowing with perfect health and physical
well-being, they showed not the slightest signs
of being awkward or ill at ease in their evening
togs. Add to this the fact that two of them, Lefty
Locke and Billy Orth, were men of unusual good
looks, and it is small wonder that their arrival
at the restaurant caused a little stir of interest
among the diners already present.</p>
<p>They were swiftly recognized, of course, and
the stir increased to a bustle; for even society
doesn’t often have a chance of studying two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span>
pitchers, the catcher, and second baseman of a
national organization at close range. The four
athletes, however, paid scant attention to the interest
they were exciting. They were too well accustomed
to that sort of thing to let it interfere
with their enjoyment. They were out for a good
time, and meant to have it, regardless of rubbernecks.</p>
<p>There was nothing in the least boisterous in
their behavior. They laughed and talked and
joshed one another, to be sure, but their manner
was not a whit different from that of a dozen other
parties about them. They consumed the well-ordered
dinner—conspicuous by the absence of
anything to drink—leisurely. Then, it being
close on to eight, they paid the sizable check,
tipped the waiters, and departed, having shown
from the beginning a breeding and a refreshing
lack of self-consciousness which opened the eyes
of not a few observers.</p>
<p>The theater being only a few blocks away, they
walked, arriving in the lobby just as the overture
was beginning. There was the usual crowd jostling
to get in. As the four friends stood waiting
for an usher to take their checks, Lefty heard his
name called in a slightly familiar voice.</p>
<p>For a second he stared around in a puzzled
way, failing to locate the owner of that voice in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span>
the crowd. Dalton’s elbow dug into his ribs, and
Dalton’s voice whispered in his ear:</p>
<p>“The Big Chief! Get busy, kid.”</p>
<p>Then it was that Lefty discovered Charles
Collier, the distinguished-looking owner of the
Blue Stockings, standing near the wall at a little
distance; and beside him, more charming than
ever in her evening gown of shimmering white,
was his daughter, Virginia.</p>
<p>“You’re just the man I’m looking for,” Collier
said, as Lefty stepped swiftly over and bowed his
greetings. “See here, boy, is it possible that
you’re a son of the Reverend Paul Hazelton, who
went through Dartmouth and the New York Theological
Seminary, and has a parish somewhere
out in Jersey?”</p>
<p>Lefty’s eyes brightened. “Quite possible,” he
smiled. “He’s been in Summit for the last twelve
years. Do you know him?”</p>
<p>“Know him?” echoed Collier emphatically.
“I should say I did! Why, we were chums at college,
and kept up our friendship for a number of
years afterward. I must have been wool-gathering.
I knew your name was Hazelton, but somehow
the connection never occurred to me till my
daughter suggested it at dinner to-night. I suppose
it was because I couldn’t associate Paul’s
son with baseball.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span></p>
<p>“Yes; Dad has a perfect horror of the game.
He had a friend who was killed while—”</p>
<p>“Yes, of course. Poor Brandon! It was in
our junior year. Your father could never bear
even to see a game after that. I must have a chat
with you about him soon. Just now I’m—”</p>
<p>He paused abruptly, his eyes roving over the
immaculate figure of the young man, and then
veering swiftly to his daughter’s face.</p>
<p>“By Jove, Virginia!” he exclaimed. “I don’t
see why Hazelton can’t help us out.”</p>
<p>Miss Collier’s color deepened a trifle and she
made a quick, protesting gesture with her white-gloved
hands. “How absurd, Dad! Mr. Hazelton
is here with friends. I couldn’t think of asking
such a thing.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense!” chuckled the older man. “I don’t
believe he’ll mind shaking them for a little while.”
He turned to Locke. “I’ve just had a message
from a real-estate man,” he explained, “whom I
expected to see in the morning. He’s got to take
the midnight back to Boston, and it’s essential
that I should talk to him before he goes. Virginia
can’t very well stay here alone, but if you
would take my place—”</p>
<p>“I should be delighted,” Lefty said swiftly, as
the older man paused questioningly. “The fellows
I’m with are just three men from the team.”</p>
<p>In reality he was very far from being overjoyed,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span>
but he was much too courteous and well-bred to
allow any sign of this to appear in his face or
manner. Having given up an evening with Janet
to keep his previous engagement, he did not particularly
fancy spending it with even so charming
a person as Virginia Collier.</p>
<p>Under the circumstances, however, there was
nothing to do but accept with the best possible
grace the situation forced on him; and, though
she was watching him closely, the girl saw nothing
in his face but ready acquiescence and well-simulated
pleasure.</p>
<p>Collier breathed a sigh of relief, handed over
the seat coupons, and departed hastily, with the
assurance that he would be back before the performance
was ended. Still giving his clever imitation
of one in the throes of unalloyed bliss, Lefty
explained to his friends, and then escorted Miss
Collier down the aisle, conscious as he passed the
eighth row of the concentrated stare of three pair
of observing eyes. He did not glance round, however,
and he was settled in the third-row aisle seat
when the curtain began to rise.</p>
<p>Few men can resist a thoroughly charming
woman when she sets out deliberately to make
herself agreeable. Lefty was not one of the few.
Of course, he did not realize that Miss Collier’s
manner with him was a bit different from what it
might have been with any other man.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span></p>
<p>The girl was much too clever to let him see that.
But there are ways <em>and</em> ways, most of them too
subtle for the clumsy masculine intellect to grasp,
which are part of every woman’s mental equipment.
The result of their application in the
present instance was the swift transformation of
Lefty’s pose of enjoyment into one of reality.</p>
<p>It must not be supposed for an instant that
Virginia Collier’s manner showed a trace of vulgar
coquetry; quite the contrary. Apparently
there was no particle of sentimentality in her
make-up. She talked mainly of baseball, tennis,
motoring, and kindred subjects, in a way which
showed that she was more than familiar with her
ground; and the contrast between her daintily
feminine appearance and her evident liking for
almost every sort of sport was very taking—as,
no doubt, the young woman fully appreciated.</p>
<p>By the end of the first intermission Lefty felt
as if they were old friends. Before the third act
had commenced he found himself discussing the
baseball situation almost as if she had been “one
of the fellows.” One did not have to do much
explaining. Her grasp on conditions was surprising,
her judgment almost flawless. Yet, underneath
it all, and ever present as the oft-recurring
theme of a symphony, was the lure of feminine
personality, stronger, perhaps, for its very
subtlety.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span></p>
<p>Lefty felt its pull, but did not realize the nature
of the attraction. He told himself that he had
never before met anyone quite like Virginia Collier.
She was like a good pal, a chum to whom
one could talk almost as one talked to another
man. She was a good sport in the best sense of
the word, and he was vaguely glad that the real-estate
man from Boston had appeared when he
did.</p>
<p>Just before the final curtain an usher appeared
with a note which Lefty was able to read by the
light from the stage. It was hastily scrawled
from a near-by club, and in it Charles Collier—explaining
that he was still in conference with his
business man—requested that Locke escort his
daughter home, and then send the car back for
him.</p>
<p>“It really isn’t a bit necessary,” the girl protested,
as she glanced at the paper. “If you’ll
find the motor and put me in, I can manage the
rest quite well.”</p>
<p>“Then why didn’t your father ask me to do just
that?” Lefty asked.</p>
<p>“Because he’s foolishly silly about my going
about at night alone, even in our own machine.”
Miss Collier paused an instant, and then dimpled
charmingly. “You mustn’t judge him by his behavior
to-night. He’s usually annoyingly strict
with me. I’m quite sure if you hadn’t happened<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span>
to be the son of an old college chum I should have
been taken home without seeing the play.”</p>
<p>The young pitcher laughed. “I’m awfully glad
I happened to have the proper credentials, and I
think we’d better follow out Mr. Collier’s wishes.
Besides, if I take you home it will give us a
chance to finish that discussion about Marquard’s
work in the box this year.”</p>
<p>“Since you put it that way, I’ll give in,” the
girl said, as she arose to let him place the opera
cloak carefully about her shoulders.</p>
<p>Lefty slipped on his coat, secured hat and
gloves, and stepped into the aisle. There was the
usual crush of people to block the way, and as
they moved slowly forward he half turned to
make a laughing remark to his companion.</p>
<p>The jesting words were never spoken; the very
smile froze on the young man’s lips as his eyes
fell on the face of a girl in the sixth row over near
the boxes.</p>
<p>It was Janet Harting, and there was something
about her expression which held Lefty stupidly
silent for a second or two. Then he bowed
eagerly, and smiled. There was absolutely no response.</p>
<p>For an appreciable moment Miss Harting
stared at him, her chin uptilted, her color a little
high, perhaps, but her gaze as coldly impersonal
as if he had been an utter stranger. She gazed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span>
at him, over him, <em>through</em> him, without the quiver
of an eyelash. Then she rose leisurely, deliberately
turned her back, and began to help her older
companion into a coat.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX<br>
<small>“IN BAD”</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Lefty’s face turned a dull red, for in a
flash he had realized how intolerable the
whole affair must seem to Janet Harting.
He had assured her that his engagement at the
theater that night was with some of his teammates,
yet here she found him the only escort of
a very charming young woman, of whose identity
she could naturally have no idea.</p>
<p>Moreover, Lefty’s being in full dress did not
savor altogether of a stag party. Worst of all,
the young man remembered, with a sickening
sense of irritation, how swiftly he and Miss Collier
had come to be on almost chummy terms.
An onlooker would never have supposed their acquaintance
to be only a few hours old, and Janet
had been sitting near enough to miss nothing.</p>
<p>All this passed through Lefty’s mind with a
rush. For an instant he had an almost uncontrollable
impulse to push his way through to Miss
Harting’s side and explain the innocent facts,
which must have looked so condemning. Then he
realized how impossible was the time and place<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span>
for explanations, and, pulling himself together,
moved slowly on toward the entrance.</p>
<p>Miss Collier could scarcely have missed the
little incident, swiftly as it had taken place; but
apparently she was possessed of tact, along with
a number of other good qualities, for she made
not the slightest reference to it. During the ride
uptown she chatted unconcernedly on various
topics, but it must be confessed that she had to
uphold the burden of conversation; about nine-tenths
of Lefty’s mind was taken up with a consideration
of his predicament, and with planning
a way out of it.</p>
<p>“Thank you a thousand times, Mr. Locke,”
Miss Collier said, when the car had stopped and
he had helped her out. “I’ve had a perfectly
splendid evening.”</p>
<p>“It’s been corking,” Lefty returned, trying to
force a little enthusiasm into his voice. “I’m
the one who should be thanking you.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe it,” smiled the girl, holding out
her hand. “Have Pagdon drive you wherever you
want to go. Dad won’t want him yet, I’m sure.
Come and see me some time when you haven’t
anything better to do. We’ll finish our talk about
Marquard. Good night.”</p>
<p>Without giving him time to answer she ran
lightly up the steps to the already open door,
which closed quickly upon her slim, graceful figure,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span>
leaving Locke to return slowly to the limousine,
give the address of his hotel to the chauffeur,
and step frowningly in.</p>
<p>“What a thundering jackass I am!” he muttered,
leaning back against the leather cushions.
“Why in Heaven’s name didn’t I cut out the party
and go see Janet in spite of everything? How
the deuce did I know that Collier was going to
rope me into a game like that, though—or that
Janet would be there to misconstrue everything?
I s’pose she went to get a glimpse of me. Well,
the sooner I chase up there and explain things to
her the better. I wonder if it’s too late to go
to-night?”</p>
<p>He glanced at his watch. It was decidedly too
late.</p>
<p>“I’ll hike up the first thing in the morning,” he
thought. “She’ll understand that I couldn’t do
anything else under the circumstances.”</p>
<p>There was some comfort in the reflection that
Janet had plenty of sound common sense in that
shapely little head of hers. Nevertheless, the
more he thought of it, the more Lefty realized
what a scurvy trick fate had played him.</p>
<p>“It certainly must have looked bad,” he admitted
to himself as the car stopped before the
hotel. “I wouldn’t blame any girl for getting
up on her ear.”</p>
<p>In the lobby he was met by his three deserted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span>
companions, who instantly let fly a Gatling fire
of comment.</p>
<p>“Horning in with the management, are you?”
grinned Nelson. “Just the same, I like your
taste, kid. Some class there, all right!”</p>
<p>“You bet!” chimed in Billy Orth. “What do
you want to be such a hog for, though? Might
have given somebody else a chance with one of
’em.”</p>
<p>“Spilled the beans that time, old man,” Dalton
added significantly. “Hard luck, boy. Who’d
ever have thought the other one would turn up
that way, and pinch you—”</p>
<p>“Oh, go to blazes, the lot of you!” snapped
Lefty, his face crimson.</p>
<p>Without another word he strode toward the elevator,
leaving Dalton—who had met Miss Harting
in Boston, and shrewdly guessed that there
was something more than passing friendship between
the two—eying his companions with lifted
brows.</p>
<p>“Our genial southpaw seems somewhat
peeved,” Larry murmured. “Have we touched
upon a raw spot unawares?”</p>
<p>Orth yawned. “Must be in a pretty bad way,”
he commented. “I never knew him to give up
like that without a word to say. Let’s hit the
hay; I’m sleepy.”</p>
<p>Rather silently the others followed him toward<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span>
the elevator. Though there were no further remarks
on the subject, they were all wondering
what had happened to make the usually quick-witted,
even-tempered Locke flare up the way he
had at a little good-natured joshing, which ordinarily
would have brought forth nothing more
than a grin and a retort in kind.</p>
<p>The object of their solicitude was thinking
pretty much the same thing. He had scarcely
set foot in the elevator before he regretted that
silly burst of temper.</p>
<p>“Looks as if I was bound to make a fool of myself
to-night,” he thought. “I reckon I’m in bad
all around.”</p>
<p>He did not sleep well, and was up early. Having
hurried through his breakfast, he dawdled
around with a newspaper until eight o’clock, and
then sought the telephone booth. A woman’s
voice—Janet’s aunt, no doubt—answered his call.</p>
<p>“Is Miss Harting in?” he asked quickly.</p>
<p>“Who is this, please?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Hazelton. I won’t keep her for more—”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” interrupted the voice, with a curt,
crisp intonation which belied the words, “but Miss
Harting is too busy to come to the telephone.”</p>
<p>“Will she be at home— Hang it all! She’s
cut off.”</p>
<p>Lefty slammed up the receiver, and sat scowling
for a moment at the instrument.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span></p>
<p>“Might think I’d committed a crime,” he
growled at last. “Won’t even give me a chance
to say a word in my own defense.” His jaw
squared stubbornly. “I’ll make her listen to
me,” he went on. “I’ll go up there and see her,
whether she’s at home or not. I’ll go now, too.”</p>
<p>This was easier said than done. Emerging
from the booth, Lefty was waylaid by Spider
Grant, captain of the team, who wasted a good
half hour in desultory discussion of their chances
for winning the third game of the series from the
Specters that afternoon. It might have continued
for an hour and a half had not Locke departed
unceremoniously in the very midst of one of Spider’s
most elaborate arguments.</p>
<p>“If hot air would win the game, we wouldn’t
need to go out to the park,” he muttered grumpily
as he leaped aboard an open car.</p>
<p>Of course there was a block; equally of course,
Lefty fretted and fumed and wasted his good energy
and invention in uncomplimentary remarks
about the road and its operators. He was compelled
to walk the last twelve blocks. When he at
last arrived at the apartment house his mental
condition was far from enviable.</p>
<p>“Not at home,” said the maid, with cool brevity.</p>
<p>As she started to close the door Lefty placed
one foot over the sill, with apparent carelessness.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span>
His earnestness of purpose was dimming the
brightness of his manners.</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” he asked suspiciously. “I
only want to see Miss Harting for a minute.”</p>
<p>“Indeed!” sniffed the girl. “Well, you’ll have
to wait some time before you get the chance. She
and Mrs. Manning are leaving on the night train
for the Adirondacks.”</p>
<p>“The Adirondacks!” gasped Lefty. “To-night!”
He stood staring at the maid for a moment
in utter dismay. “But I <em>must</em> see them before
they go. Haven’t you any idea where they
are now?”</p>
<p>“No more’n a fly,” returned the girl, evidently
softened a little by his distress. “They went
right after the trunks was took—shoppin’, I
s’pose. Anyhow, Mrs. Manning said they
wouldn’t be back.”</p>
<p>How Lefty went through the rest of the morning
he did not know. What had been started by a
trivial trick of chance seemed to be growing more
serious every moment. Evidently Janet believed
the worst of him. It was equally evident that she
was determined to give him no opportunity to explain
the mix-up. Her behavior hurt Lefty desperately.
It seemed unfair and unjust that she
should have so little faith in him, in spite of appearances.</p>
<p>For several hours he wandered about the shopping<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span>
district, in the vague hope that somehow he
might run across the girl. Failing in that, he
lunched in gloomy solitude, then made his way to
the ball park.</p>
<p>For six innings he sat on the bench in grim silence
while “Slick” Lumley held down the Specters
to a shut-out score. Slick was one of those
pitchers who are unsurpassed when they are good,
but who seldom last through an entire game. Evidently
Carson did not propose to run any chances
of his blowing up this time, for at the beginning of
the seventh, with Lumley showing sudden wildness,
he took him off the mound and substituted
Billy Orth.</p>
<p>It was during that inning that Lefty got up
from the bench to stretch his legs, and became
aware for the first time of the presence of Miss
Collier in the box with her father. She nodded
cordially, and it seemed only natural for him to
step up and say a few words to her.</p>
<p>The few words lengthened into a prolonged conversation.
The club owner had a good many questions
to ask about Lefty’s father, and Virginia
herself was so bright and cheery and interesting
that the young pitcher was raised from the depths
of despondency in spite of himself.</p>
<p>For three innings he stood leaning against the
rail of the box. Toward the end he was talking
and laughing almost as if he hadn’t a thing on his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span>
mind to worry him. Several times his glance wandered
back into the stands to where sat a young
man of about his own age, who seemed much more
interested in the party in the box than in the game.
The fellow’s expression was so bitter, and he
stared so fixedly at the famous southpaw, that
Lefty wondered if he had ever met the chap
before, or whether it was simply one of those curious
dislikes certain fans seem to take to a player
every once in a while.</p>
<p>Locke was still wondering when Orth struck
out the last man, winning the game by a score of
two to one, and the crowd began to pour out of
their seats to jam the aisles and runways.</p>
<p>The next second Lefty gave a start, and the
color drained swiftly from his face. He had
caught a brief, fleeting glimpse of a girl who had
been seated well back in the lower stand. Her
face had been invisible all through the game, but
now, as she arose and stepped into the aisle, he saw
it clearly for an instant before she was swallowed
up in the mob. It was the face of the girl he had
been seeking all day in vain.</p>
<p>Before he realized what he was doing, he had
leaped for the nearest gate, and swung it open.
Then he stopped, with a groan. It would be like
hunting a needle in a haystack to try and find her
in this crush. She might leave at any of a dozen
exits before he could reach even one of them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span></p>
<p>For a moment he stood there, a scowl on his face,
bitterness in his heart. Why had she come to the
grounds at all? Was it to see him without the
chance of being seen? Well, she had accomplished
her purpose with a vengeance; she had beheld him
chatting and laughing intimately with the same
girl she supposed he had taken to the theater last
night.</p>
<p>With a groan of disappointment and mental
pain, Lefty whirled around and tramped sullenly
across the field toward the clubhouse. He did not
give a single backward glance at the charming
Miss Collier. He had forgotten her very existence
in the irritation and trouble which this new complication
had brought upon him.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X<br>
<small>THE GROUCH</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">A modern Big League team is very much
like an overgrown family. The men are
together every day, and all day. At intervals
they spend long hours cooped up in Pullman
cars, always putting up at the same hotels
while on the road, and frequently the majority of
players belonging to a club stop at one particularly
favored place at home. They miss little going
on about them. As a result of this intimacy
it was not long before Locke’s altered demeanor
became a topic of discussion among the Blue
Stockings.</p>
<p>“I’d like to know what’s worrying the boy,” remarked
Spider Grant early one afternoon in the
dressing room. “He’s been going round for three
or four days with a face a mile long.”</p>
<p>He paused in his leisurely preparations for the
game, and glanced inquiringly from one to another
of the half dozen men who lounged about the room
in various stages of undress.</p>
<p>“He’s sure got a grouch,” agreed Rufe Hyland,
intent on the adjustment of his sliding pads.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span>
“Ain’t seen him crack a smile in so long I’ve forgot
what he looks like grinnin’. Mebbe he’s
peeved at the way Carson’s been runnin’ him in
at the tail end of games to pull us out of holes.
Bein’ a life-saver an’ gettin’ no credit’s enough
to get any man raw.”</p>
<p>“That’s true enough,” agreed Grant. “He
hasn’t had a whack at a straight game for over a
week. Still, that wouldn’t turn a decent fellow
like Lefty into a chronic grouch; he’s got too much
sense. No, he acts to me like he was in love, and
his girl had given him the double cross or something.
How about that, Larry? You ought to
know.”</p>
<p>Dalton, wearing little more than his usual smile,
shrugged his muscular shoulders and bustled
among the contents of his locker.</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t wonder if you’d hit it, Spider,” he
returned, straightening up with a flannel shirt in
his hands. “He has got a girl—regular peacherino,
too—and I’ve got an idea that she has cross-signaled
him lately. He spends half his time writing
letters, and tears most of ’em up. That’s a
bad sign, you know.”</p>
<p>“Huh!” growled Hyland. “This skirt business
makes me sick. There ain’t a thing in it. I’ve
been hitched twice, and divorced the same number—an’
never again. I wouldn’t make sheep’s eyes
at the best-lookin’ dame in this town, believe me.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span>
They git a fellow so fussed that he don’t know
whether he’s afoot or horseback. If some female’s
throwed the kid down, an’ that’s what he’s
grouchin’ about, take it from me he’ll be bustin’
up on the mound one of these days—an’ then
where’ll he come off at?”</p>
<p>“Where’ll <em>we</em> come off, you mean,” retorted
Grant, with a frown. “He’s the best all-round
flinger in this outfit, and if he goes to seed then
go-o-od night post-season series.”</p>
<p>There being no other pitchers present, the statement
passed uncontradicted. Grant slipped out
of his street trousers, carefully folded them, and
turned again to Dalton.</p>
<p>“Can’t you find out if that’s it, Larry?” he
asked. “If it is, we ought to do something to—”</p>
<p>“Cheese! Cheese!” warned Kid Lewis. “Here
he comes.”</p>
<p>A moment later the young southpaw entered the
dressing room, curtly responded to jovial greetings—somewhat
forced—from the other men, and
strode over to his locker. His forehead was corrugated
by the frown which had become habitual of
late. His eyes were somber. He made no attempt
whatever to join in the conversation which
swiftly started up again, seeming, in fact, to be almost
oblivious to what was going on. He answered
two or three direct questions in monosyllables,
stripped off his clothes with an absent sort<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span>
of haste, got into his uniform in much the same
manner, and departed, wrapped in gloom, without
having volunteered a single remark.</p>
<p>As he disappeared into the corridor, the other
players eyed each other significantly.</p>
<p>“I never thought to see Lefty Locke with a
face like that on him,” commented Dirk Nelson
mournfully. “Why, the boy used to be the life
of the whole crowd.”</p>
<p>“If it <em>is</em> a girl who’s responsible,” growled
Hyland viciously, “she’d ought to be massecreed.
There ain’t a woman livin’ that’s worth
makin’ all that fuss about.”</p>
<p>Spider Grant finished lacing his shoes, and
stood up, stamping.</p>
<p>“Try if you can’t get wise to the game, Larry,”
he said abruptly. “I don’t know as we
can do anything, but it’ll be something to be sure.
He’ll loosen up to you sooner’n to any of the rest
of us.”</p>
<p>Dalton agreed, but without any great exhibition
of confidence. He had noticed a marked reserve
on the part of Lefty Locke lately, which did not
augur well for the extraction of confidences.
There was a little more talk on the subject, but it
ceased with the arrival of Pete Grist and his
bunch of cronies. Soon afterward they all sauntered
out to the diamond.</p>
<p>The game that day was the last of a series<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span>
with the Hornets, and the last which would be
played on the home grounds for some time.
That night would see the Blue Stockings bound
for the territory of their greatest rivals, the Specters,
after which would follow the final Western
circuit.</p>
<p>Either the home club had weakened, or the Hornets
improved noticeably since their last encounter.
The Blue Stockings had won every
game, to be sure, but they had won them only by
the hardest kind of work; and on two occasions
the phenomenal pitching of Locke, put into the
box for two and four innings respectively, was
all that saved the day.</p>
<p>To the fans it seemed a certainty that the
young southpaw would start off on the mound
to-day, and a murmur of surprise arose when
the umpire announced “Pink” Dillon’s name.</p>
<p>Dillon was, at times, a brilliant pitcher, but
he had been on the sick list for some weeks; and
the manager’s mistaken judgment was proved
by the fact that he lasted for just two innings,
during the last of which the Hornets succeeded
in pounding out three runs.</p>
<p>In spite of vociferous yells for Locke on the
part of the bleacherites, Carson sent Grist into
the box. He lasted until the end of the seventh.
Then, owing in part, perhaps, to the carping criticism
from a group of leather-lunged fans, to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span>
whom nobody but Lefty Locke looked good, he
made a sudden and pyrotechnic ascension which
let in several more tallies.</p>
<p>Lefty was hurried into the gap with the score
eight to three against the home team, and, though
the portsider kept the Hornets from further scoring,
the Blue Stockings were able to get only two
more runners across the rubber. Therefore the
game was lost by a tally of eight to five.</p>
<p>The tramp and thunder of departing thousands
had been going on for several minutes, yet Miss
Collier still sat in a box, her eyes fixed on the
throng of white-clad players just disappearing
through the fence on the farther side of the field.
All afternoon the young southpaw had not so
much as glanced in her direction, yet to-night he
was leaving the city, to be gone for several weeks.
It seemed as if he might at least have said
good-by.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t take it so hard if I were you,”
smiled Mr. Collier, turning away from the friend
with whom he had been chatting. “We can afford
to lose this game, you know. The boys will
make it up when they meet the Specters.”</p>
<p>The girl arose leisurely and turned her back
on the field.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t thinking of that,” she said quietly.
She paused for a second, her slim, gloved hands
straightening her hat. “Doesn’t it seem a little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span>
odd to you, Dad, that Mr. Locke pitches so few
games?”</p>
<p>“Few!” repeated the magnate in amazement.
“Why, he’s been in the box twice this week, and
twice last!”</p>
<p>Miss Collier shrugged her shoulders gracefully.
“Precisely,” she returned calmly. “He’s been
in the box for anywhere from two to four
innings. Three times out of those four he won
games some other pitcher tried to lose. He
pitched a full game the day before I got home.
Since then he’s been doing the most thankless
sort of relief work. You see my point?”</p>
<p>Mr. Collier’s jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be
hanged!” he exclaimed. “You certainly put one
over on me that time, Virginia—or was it Locke
who put you wise?”</p>
<p>“Certainly <em>not</em>,” the girl retorted emphatically.
“He isn’t that sort at all.”</p>
<p>“Hum! No, of course not. I’m very glad you
mentioned this, my dear. Such a thing is neither
fair to the boy nor good judgment. I’ll see Carson
before he leaves to-night, and tell him a little
something.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI<br>
<small>ON THE RAW EDGE</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">The train had been in motion for twenty
minutes or so, and the occupants of the
Blue Stocking special car were beginning
to settle down for the evening when Al Carson
appeared in the doorway of his stateroom. For
a moment or two he stood there, frowning, his
glance passing indifferently over the brisk poker
game with its several interested onlookers which
was going on near him, past the lounging players
engaged in idle talk or immersed in newspapers.
There was a sudden tightening of his lips, however,
as his eyes finally came to rest on the
sprawling figure of Lefty Locke, hunched in the
corner of a seat well forward. A moment later
the manager stood looking down on the southpaw,
with narrowing lids.</p>
<p>“Been whining around a petticoat, have you?”
he sneered.</p>
<p>Lefty’s eyes veered suddenly from the window
to the manager’s face.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” he snapped.</p>
<p>“I said you’d been whining around a skirt,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span>
complaining that I was using favoritism with the
pitchers. You weren’t man enough to put up
your kick to me; you had to go bawling about it
to Collier’s daughter, so she’d work her father—”</p>
<p>“That’s a lie!” rasped Locke, his face crimson.
“A lie, and you know it!”</p>
<p>His eyes were flashing, his fists were doubled;
every muscle of his big frame had suddenly become
tense and hard as a panther’s crouching
for a spring. The manager himself turned suddenly
livid with anger. For a moment, to the
three or four players sitting near enough to observe
what was going on, it looked as if another
second would bring about a rough-and-tumble
scrap.</p>
<p>Just in time, however, Carson, realizing the
danger of the situation, managed to get control of
his temper.</p>
<p>“<em>Is</em> that so?” he sneered. “Perhaps you can
explain how Miss Collier came to draw the old
man’s attention to the fact that you hadn’t
pitched a straight game in over a week.”</p>
<p>“Not being a fool,” Lefty snapped back, “it’s
quite possible she discovered it by simple observation.
Everybody else is wise to the fact
that ever since you took hold of the team you’ve
been using me to win games for the precious
pitcher you’re so stuck on.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span></p>
<p>Carson caught his breath swiftly and turned
white with rage. “What the deuce—” he blustered.
“Who—”</p>
<p>“You know well enough who I mean,” retorted
Locke. “If you don’t, then ask any man on the
team, and you’ll find out quick. I’m not kicking;
I’m simply stating facts. You’re manager
of this team, and you’ve got the right to run it
any way you choose. But there’s just this, <em>Mister</em>
Carson: in future we’ll dispense with any
more talk about my currying favor with the
owner, either through his daughter or in any
other way. When I’m ready to kick about anything,
I’ll come to you and do it. Believe me,
you’ll know it!”</p>
<p>“What do you mean by such talk?” frothed
Carson, his face purple. “I’ll fine you—”</p>
<p>“Fine and be hanged!” defied Locke. “Only
shut up! You started this, not I. You asked a
question, and I answered, so cut out the hot air
and leave me alone. I’m sick of the sound of
your voice.”</p>
<p>For a second or two the manager stared in
dazed fury at the scowling face of the young
pitcher, and then—he wilted. Lefty’s remarks
had hit the nail on the head only too accurately,
and Carson knew it. He and Pete Grist had
been on friendly terms for a number of years,
and Grist had been favored by the manager at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span>
every opportunity, though Carson flattered himself
that it had been done too skillfully to be obvious.
The shock of discovering the contrary,
and also the realization that Locke was apparently
in a state of mind which necessitated handling
with gloves, caused the official to back water.
With a snappy retort or two, and a very fierce expression,
he turned on his heel and sought the seclusion
of his stateroom.</p>
<p>The slamming of the door was followed by a
hush more eloquent than many words. The altercation
had been conducted with no soft pedal
on, and almost every word had been audible the
entire length of the car. For a few minutes even
the poker game was in abeyance, as the men
glanced significantly at one another with lifted
eyebrows, shaking their heads.</p>
<p>“He’s sure enough sore,” whispered Kid
Lewis. “Maybe it isn’t the girl, after all.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe,” agreed Rufe Hyland, glancing at his
cards again. “Lucky Grist’s in the smoker, or
there’d be a rough-house for fair.”</p>
<p>“What he said was nothing but gospel,” protested
Nelson. “Carson’s been favoring Pete
every chance he got. Lefty won two games for
him within a week, and didn’t get any credit; for
Grist, going to the bad, was drawn with us leadin’
by a run.”</p>
<p>“Oh, sure! I know that. But Petie’s a peppery<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span>
gink, and no fellow likes to hear that kind
of truth blabbed out in so many words.”</p>
<p>Of course, Grist heard all about it before many
hours had passed. In the dressing room on the
Specter grounds, next afternoon, he made some
sneering remarks on the subject in a loud tone,
which could not help reaching Locke’s ears. Instantly
Lefty retorted savagely. Grist snapped
back viciously, and but for the swift interference
of the other men, there would have been a fight
then and there.</p>
<p>Five minutes later Carson appeared and curtly
informed the southpaw that he was to start the
game.</p>
<p>It was in this mental condition that Lefty received
instructions to pitch. He made no comment
beyond a surly nod, but his teammates
glanced dubiously at one another, and shook their
heads.</p>
<p>One and all were conscious of an unpleasant
feeling of suspense and unrest. It was as if they
were walking on the thin crust of a volcano which
was likely at any moment to burst into violent
eruption.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII<br>
<small>UNCERTAINTY</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Contrary to the fears of a good many
Blue Stockings, Lefty still seemed to be
“there with the goods.” To be sure, he
stalked out to the mound with a gloomy face and
wrinkled brow, which was the very antithesis of his
usual cheerful, good-humored expression; but
when it came to bending them over, he showed
every bit of his old-time skill for the first three
innings.</p>
<p>It was in the fourth that Larry Dalton, who had
been watching his friend closely, began to notice
a change. Red Callahan, an uncertain hitter, was
at the bat. The southpaw pulled him with a
pretty outcurve, following with a clever drop;
and then, with two strikes and only one ball called,
he whipped over a fast, straight ball, which
would have cut the heart of the plate had not Red
fallen upon it joyfully, smashing it out for a canter
to first.</p>
<p>It was not a very bad slip; pitchers fail every
day through underestimation of a poor hitter.
But carelessness had never been one of Lefty’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span>
faults, and Dalton’s eyes widened with surprise
as the Specter infielder romped down to the initial
sack, and stood there grinning.</p>
<p>The look of surprise deepened on Larry’s face
when Locke gave the next batter three balls in
succession, meanwhile allowing Callahan to steal
second.</p>
<p>“That’s the game!” barked the Specter coachers
jubilantly. “Make him put ’em over, Jack.
He ain’t such a wonder, after all. Too bad,
Lefty, old boy. Losing your control?”</p>
<p>“Make those dubs shut up!” snapped Locke,
turning to the umpire. “They can talk to their
own men, but not to me.”</p>
<p>The coachers received a perfunctory warning,
and naturally, when they saw that the pitcher objected
to their remarks, they redoubled their efforts,
simply altering the person.</p>
<p>Dalton could scarcely believe his ears. To
think of Lefty Locke being bothered by a little
hot air! Ordinarily he simply grinned aggravatingly,
or gave an excellent imitation of a deaf
mute. It seemed incredible, and a furrow of
anxiety flashed into place between Larry’s brown
eyes.</p>
<p>Lefty managed to pull out of the hole, but the
mere fact that he had allowed himself to get into
it was enough to cause his teammates to worry.</p>
<p>The fifth inning passed with the score still one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span>
to one—both runs had been made at the very beginning
of the game. In the sixth the Blue
Stockings scored another tally, a lead which they
held in spite of the desperate efforts of their
opponents in the final half of the inning.</p>
<p>During the seventh and eighth Lefty’s pitching
came near giving a number of people heart
failure. It was by turns mediocre to a degree,
and superbly brilliant. He would get himself
into holes by inexcusable carelessness, and then,
when he seemed on the point of blowing up, he
would steady down and make the spectators shout
joyous approval.</p>
<p>Throughout this erratic performance Billy
Orth sat on the bench, watching the work of the
grim, frowning portsider with alternate dismay,
delight, and wonderment.</p>
<p>“Good Lord!” Billy muttered to himself. “I
never saw him so shifty. First he’s careless and
wild as a hawk, then, just when he seems going
up for fair, he tightens like a drumhead. He’s
got Carson squirming.”</p>
<p>True, the manager of the Blue Stockings was
squirming. Even when Locke fanned dangerous
hitters in the pinches Carson, though showing
some relief, did not look wholly happy. At no
time was the angry frown wiped clean from his
face. For through it all he was troubled by a
nagging conviction that the man on the mound<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span>
was playing on his feelings as well as toying with
the opposing batters.</p>
<p>It really seemed that Lefty invited and sought
threatening situations—in any of which the
slightest slip would give the Specters what they
desired—in order that he might make a display
of his skill by balking the enemy when they were
almost grasping the coveted prize. A pitcher
who could “monkey” in such a manner, with the
result of a single game meaning so much, was not
worthy of trust under any circumstances. Had
Carson felt absolutely assured that Locke was doing
this, he would have braved the wrath of the
owner by benching the man in one of those tense,
threatening moments.</p>
<p>But Carson was not sure. Much as he disliked
Lefty for certain reasons, he could not bring himself
to believe that a youngster with Locke’s
promise in the Big League would, through malice
or spite, toy inanely with his future prospects.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, even when Lefty succeeded in
pulling himself out of the holes, and came to the
bench amid the approving uproar of the great
crowd, the manager could not bring himself to
give the grim and sullen man a word of encouragement
and approval. True it was that Locke
did not invite anything of the sort, and actually
seemed, by his cold and distant manner, to repel
the advances of his own friends and intimates<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span>
on the team. In every way he was thoroughly
unlike the open, jovial, likable youngster he had
seemed to be earlier in the season.</p>
<p>Even Laughing Larry, than whom no one had
been more intimate with the young southpaw,
wore an expression of troubled anxiety each time
he came to the bench following those pinches.</p>
<p>Billy Orth saw this, and signaled for the perspiring,
disturbed Dalton to sit beside him in the
pit.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with Lefty, Dalt?” asked
Orth guardedly. “Do you think—”</p>
<p>“Dunno what to think,” muttered Larry, in a
perplexed way; “but I don’t believe he’s right.
The whole team feels it, too; and, with our slim
margin of one run, it wouldn’t take only the
smallest break to put the bunch off their feet.”</p>
<p>“Of course you’ve noticed how queer he’s
been acting the last few days?”</p>
<p>“Huh! Couldn’t help noticing it. A blind
man or a fool could see that. He seems to be
sore with himself and the whole world generally.
That quarrel with Carson didn’t improve his condition
any. He’s in bad there.”</p>
<p>“But he stands well with the skirt, and she
seems to be the real power behind the machine.”</p>
<p>“The skirt? Oh, you mean Collier’s daughter?”</p>
<p>“Sure! She seems to be running things.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span></p>
<p>Dalton shook his head soberly. “And that’s
unfortunate. Women may vote, hold office, and
go to war if they want to, but baseball is one thing
they’d better keep their noses out of. No team
ever did well with a female monkeying with it.”</p>
<p>“Do you know,” murmured Billy, “I’ve got an
idea that I can locate Lefty Locke’s weak spot.
It’s skirts. We all have our failings, and that’s
his.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps you’re right,” nodded Larry. “I’ve
always thought he had a level block, till lately.
Now he’s mixed up with two dames, and—”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you talk to him, Larry? You’re
the one to do it. He ought to listen to you.”</p>
<p>“Maybe he ought to listen, but he won’t. Once
I wouldn’t have hesitated, but now I can’t open
my face to him without his being ready to jump
down my throat. I confess it has made me a bit
raw, too. Once he had plenty of friends, but if
he keeps on he will lose the sympathy of everybody.”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid you’re right,” admitted Billy
sadly. “I’ve been figuring to get my fingers on
some of that post-season money, but if Locke goes
to pieces now we won’t be in the running at the
wind-up. Let’s hope for the best.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII<br>
<small>SUSPENSE</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">The Specter twirler having become practically
unhittable, the ninth inning gave
the Blue Stockings nothing further than
their slim lead of one tally. The final half
opened with Dutch Schwartz, leading the Specter’s
list, the first man to face Locke.</p>
<p>“Whiff him, Lefty!” begged a few fans. “You
can do it! Oh, you Lefty! You’re the boy!”</p>
<p>With an expression of mingled determination
and disdain for these pleading rooters, Schwartz
planted himself at the plate, having first knocked
the dirt out of his spikes with the butt of his
heavy club.</p>
<p>“Take it easy, son,” called Spider Grant, getting
into position to cover plenty of territory in
the vicinity of first. “You know him. If you
can get him to start with, it will be as good as
two down.”</p>
<p>Locke gave his captain a cold stare, and his
lips moved. It seemed that he muttered some
sullen retort, but Grant could not distinguish the
words.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span></p>
<p>So long did the pitcher stand in that position,
gazing straight at Spider, that the tense
crowd began to wonder, and the umpire called
“Play” twice. Finally, lifting his “meat hand”
with the soiled horsehide gripped in his fingers,
Lefty turned his eyes on Nelson, who crouched
promptly, and signaled.</p>
<p>Wagging his bat loosely, almost lightly, Dutch
Schwartz was in position to step into anything
handed up. Possibly delaying in an effort to get
the batter’s nerve, Lefty made no further move
until he provoked a protest from the Specter captain.
Then, like one awaking from a half trance,
the pitcher balanced himself on one foot, swung
far back, brought his body over and forward, and
made the delivery. Never had anyone present
witnessed a wilder pitch. It was a wonder that
the ball did not go clean over the top of the grandstand.</p>
<p>“Oh, oh, oh!” shouted the coachers, while the
startled crowd broke into exclamations. “Look
a’ that! Get a scaling ladder, Schwartzy.”</p>
<p>The Dutchman grinned and tapped the pentagon
with the end of his bat.</p>
<p>A boy recovered the ball and threw it to Nelson,
who made a pretense of looking it over before
he tossed it to Locke.</p>
<p>On the bench the watchful Billy Orth, actually
shivering, whispered to himself: “Now, I wonder<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span>
if he did that on purpose—I wonder. It
doesn’t seem likely. If he did, he’s getting to be
a good subject for the foolish factory.”</p>
<p>Others beside Billy were wondering. While
they were thus engaged Locke pitched again.
This time he whipped a smoker over, and
Schwartz fouled it against the right-field bleachers.</p>
<p>“That makes you even, old boy!” called Grant,
ere he turned to receive the ball from the fielder
who had chased it down. But, somehow, his voice
seemed to lack the ring of genuine cheerfulness.</p>
<p>Even the least astute spectator could see that
the Blue Stockings were all keyed up to a point
of tension little short of snapping. Something
in the very air seemed to presage a break. And
that meant—disaster.</p>
<p>It was such a situation, however, as provides
one of the intense thrills of the game, the sort of
a thrill and suspense which makes it so fascinating
to its thousands upon thousands of followers.
It is the desire to feel just this keen distress
and uncertainty, intensely delicious in its
poignant pain, that lures a fan to the ball park
day after day to witness dead and uninteresting
games, hoping always for the pinch that will set
them swallowing hard to keep their hearts from
choking them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span></p>
<p>Frowning, Lefty pitched again. The ball
seemed to make a yellow streak through the air,
and Nelson, though he held it, was actually set
back the least fraction by the terrific impact of
the sphere in his big mitt.</p>
<p>Schwartz had struck again—and missed.</p>
<p>“Smoke! Smoke!” shouted Dalton, laughing
suddenly in his old-time way. “He couldn’t see
it, my boy! Once more, and you’ve got him!”</p>
<p>Indeed, Laughing Larry had suddenly decided
that the pitcher he had doubted might be playing
a clever game, even though the wisdom of it could
be questioned. Nor was Larry the only one with
confidence suddenly revived.</p>
<p>“Such speed!” muttered Billy Orth. “And
his control was perfect—that time.”</p>
<p>“That’s two on him!” howled an excited man
from the middle stand. “He’s your meat, Lefty!
You never did fail us!”</p>
<p>Nelson gave his tingling bare hand a shake and
returned the ball to Locke, who seemed to perceive
it just in time to thrust out his gloved right
and catch it a bit awkwardly. They saw him
shake his head from side to side with a queer motion
and pass the back of his left hand across his
sweat-moistened forehead. His face was drawn
into hard, set lines, which seemed like lines of
pain. Before looking again for Nelson’s signal,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span>
he walked all the way around the slab, staring
down at the ground as if seeking for something
he had dropped. And these queer movements
brought the uncertainty leaping back into the
heart of Laughing Larry and others.</p>
<p>There was speed in the next one—speed
enough, it is true; but Schwartz could not have
reached it had his bat measured two feet more
than it did. It went past Nelson, and clean to
the stand, from which it rebounded.</p>
<p>“Wait it out, Dutch,” urged a coacher. “He’ll
hand you a pass yet.”</p>
<p>Schwartz knew how to wait, as he proved by
ignoring the next pitch, which barely failed to cut
a corner. Three balls were called—three balls
and two strikes.</p>
<p>Again Lefty gave his head that queer, side-swaying
shake. His teeth were set and his lips
drawn back. Receiving the ball, he held it
gripped tightly in both hands beneath his chin,
while he leaned forward to get the catcher’s
sign.</p>
<p>Upon the crowd fell a great hush, in the midst
of which the voices of Locke’s teammates, calling
encouragement, could be distinctly heard.
Schwartz, his confidence apparently unmarred,
waited, sturdily alert.</p>
<p>Lefty nodded, swung backward, swung forward,
slashed the air with his arm—pitched. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span>
was a hook-curve, sharp, and breaking toward
the outside corner. Schwartz swung his bat as
if it weighed no more than a toothpick. But,
marvelous hitter though he was, that curve fooled
him, and he was out.</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV<br>
<small>A WILD HEAVE</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Championship prospects for the Blue
Stockings had led an unusual number of
rooters for the team to follow it around
on the short jumps, and now, with the fanning of
Schwartz, they made a tremendous racket. The
following batters might be equally dangerous,
but, with the sturdy Dutchman disposed of, the
prospect of holding the threatening Specters was
bright indeed. Not a few felt, like Larry Dalton,
that to get Schwartz at this time was as good as
disposing of two men.</p>
<p>As Bugs Murray took Schwartz’s place, however,
the great bulk of the gathering howled for
a safety.</p>
<p>“Get a hit! Get a hit!” was the cry. “Put
us in the game, Bugs!”</p>
<p>“He’s just as easy, Lefty, old boy,” chuckled
Dalton. “Sew it up right here. This game
counts. We need it.”</p>
<p>By no visible sign did Locke show that the
words of his friend reached his ears. On the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span>
other hand, the rooting of the immense crowd in
the stands seemed to annoy him in a most unusual
way. And when one individual, with a voice like
a locomotive whistle, shrieked that he was “wild,”
“no good,” “easy,” and “punk,” he remained
for some moments staring at the spot from which
the cries seemed to come.</p>
<p>“Don’t mind that, old man,” pleaded Grant.
“You know what you can do. Bugs is your next
victim. Mow him down.”</p>
<p>Again the troubled pitcher seemed to lack control,
for he handed up two wild ones that made
Nelson stretch himself to pull them down. Again
the coachers prophesied that he would be obliging
enough to give the hitter a walk. It is likely
Murray thought there was a good prospect of
such a thing, for he held back when Locke, after
a seeming struggle to pull himself together, shot
one down the groove.</p>
<p>“Strike-ah!” called the umpire, flinging up his
hand.</p>
<p>“Why, of course, of course!” whooped Dalton.
“You’ve got him hypnotized, Lefty. No free
passes this inning.”</p>
<p>But Laughing Larry was mistaken. With
Murray waiting confidently, the laboring southpaw
was unable to find the pan again, and four
balls sent Bugs capering with elephantine grace
to first.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span></p>
<p>“Going up! going up!” he whooped, doing a
dance on the sack. “Wait it out, Dil. He’s all
shot to pieces.”</p>
<p>After glancing toward his manager for a signal,
Dillingham dropped one of the two bats he
had been swinging, and hastened to put himself
into position to do a little business with the other
one.</p>
<p>Logie, fourth on the list, and therefore a most
reliable club swinger, followed Dillingham. And
Logie was the only man who, all through the
game, had shown the ability to fathom anything
Locke put within his reach. With this fact in
mind, the Specter manager felt that, even though
two should be down, and a runner on second, with
Logie batting it meant an even chance to get the
run which would tie the score.</p>
<p>“If we can tie it up now,” he thought, “we’ve
got that left-hander’s goat. He’s barely been
holding himself together, and a tie score in this
inning would scatter him all over the lot.”</p>
<p>So Dillingham was given the signal to sacrifice,
and he passed the sign to Murray, who ceased his
capering and made ready to tear up the chalk line
on the way to second.</p>
<p>Like the shouting of the crowd, the antics of
Murray had seemed to disturb Lefty, and when
he threw once to drive Bugs back to the initial
sack he made such a wild heave that Spider Grant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span>
pulled the ball down only by a most amazing leap
into the air.</p>
<p>“Wow! wow!” laughed the coacher at that
base. “He made you stretch, Spider. He can’t
even throw to the sacks. What’s the matter with
him—struck by ’stigmatism?”</p>
<p>There really seemed that there was something
the matter with Locke’s eyes, for again and again
he passed his hand across them, like one brushing
away cobwebs.</p>
<p>The restored confidence of his teammates was
ebbing again. Several times during the game
Grant had wondered why Carson sent no other
twirler out to warm up, and now the puzzling
question once more flashed through his mind.
With the former manager at the helm, the captain
would have suggested such a precaution, but
Carson was not popular with Spider.</p>
<p>“He knows so much about the inside game,”
thought Grant, “let him run things all by his
lonesome. I’ll handle my end on the field, but
I’m not going to give him a chance to call me by
proposing something he ought to be wise to himself.”</p>
<p>And only for what he had heard from Collier,
Carson would have replaced Locke with another
pitcher long ere this. With such feelings governing
the “powers,” there was really small chance
for the Blue Stockings to snatch the coveted championship.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span>
Indeed, it was just this sort of childishness
that had prevented Carson from becoming
a pennant contender on the occasions when
he had managed other Big League teams. The
thoroughly successful manager never permits
personal feelings or whims to influence his judgment.</p>
<p>Although Lefty’s first pitch to Dillingham
would have been called a ball, the batter reached
across and met it, with his club loosely held, rolling
a soggy bunt into the diamond.</p>
<p>Murray had started with the swing of the
pitcher’s arm, and therefore there was no chance
to get him at second. It was Locke’s ball to field,
and he should have nailed Dillingham at first by
twelve or fifteen feet. Somehow, he seemed to
hesitate before starting after the rolling sphere,
and then, when he did get it, with barely enough
time to pinch the runner at the initial sack, he
threw all the way into deep right.</p>
<p>A sudden roar went up. The coacher at first
shrieked for Dillingham to keep on. The one at
third howled and waved his arms at Murray.</p>
<p>Lettering one gasping snarl, Rufe Hyland
chased that wild peg down, got it on the rebound
from the face of the bleachers, and whipped it
back into the diamond in time to hold Murray at
third. At second Dalton fooled Dillingham into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span>
sliding by pretending that he was going to take
a throw.</p>
<p>The Blue Stocking fans were silent and appalled,
but the stands seemed to rock with the
tremendous uproar made by the sympathizers
with the Specters. With second and third occupied,
only one down, and Logie the hitter, it
seemed a three-to-one shot that Lefty Locke had
thrown away the game.</p>
<p>“If we only had Grist or Orth or <em>anybody</em> to
go in now!” muttered Grant. “They’re all cold.
There’s no time for ’em to warm up. Oh, this
is fine management, and I’ll have to shoulder a
big part of the blame!”</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV<br>
<small>THROWN AWAY</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">In the Blue Stocking pit Carson sat gritting his
teeth and muttering, but he gave no orders
that would tend to relieve the situation.</p>
<p>Nelson, standing on the plate with the ball in
his hands, motioned repeatedly before Locke saw
him and came forward. They met a few feet in
front of the pan.</p>
<p>“What’s the trouble, old man?” questioned
Dirk. “Are you sick?”</p>
<p>“Sick? No,” growled the southpaw. “Gimme
the ball.”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute. There’s something wrong.
You’re not right.”</p>
<p>“Nothing the matter with me. I’ll get Logie.
They won’t score. Hear that infernal bunch
howl! They make me sick!”</p>
<p>His angry eyes once more swept the tumultuous
stands, where the crowd was jeering and hooting
and shouting for the Blue Stockings to play ball.</p>
<p>“You’re paying too much attention to the
crowd, or something,” said Nelson. “You’re not
pitching in form.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span></p>
<p>“Bah! I’ve got speed, haven’t I?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but—”</p>
<p>“And curves, too?”</p>
<p>“But your control is bad. If they score now
they’ll take this game, best we can do.”</p>
<p>“I tell you they won’t score. Haven’t I made
good in every pinch to-day? Well, stop carping,
and leave it to me. Just you give me the signs,
and do your part of the work; that’s all that’s
necessary.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said the catcher, trying to seem as
confident and cheerful as possible. “But don’t
let Bugs reach the rubber—don’t, for the love of
goodness! Keep steady now, and we’ll hold ’em
yet.”</p>
<p>He handed Lefty the ball, and Locke walked
back to the mound, watching Murray, who was
capering off third in an effort to draw a throw.</p>
<p>“Come on, come on!” coaxed Bugs. “Heave
it. You can’t get me. Heave it!”</p>
<p>But the pitcher refrained from throwing, and
took his position on the slab. The moment he
squared away to pitch Dillingham ran far up
from second, ready to try to get home on any
sort of a promising single.</p>
<p>That Locke had speed enough no one could
deny, and now, to the surprise of his friends and
his opponents alike, he seemed suddenly to have
recovered his control. Doubtless Logie did not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span>
figure on this recovery, for he stood up to the
pan, without swinging, and permitted two
smokers to cut the inside corner, both being
called strikes. Annoyed, he gripped his bat and
waited for the next one. It proved to be one of
Locke’s amazing hooks, all of which seemed due
to cut the pan until they “broke.” On the break
that particular ball would shoot downward and
outward beyond the corner. It did so now, and
Logie pounded the air.</p>
<p>Laughing Larry’s joyous yell sounded high
and clear above the delighted shouts of the little
gathering of Blue Stocking “bugs” in the watching
throng.</p>
<p>“All right—it’s all right,” sang Dalton.
“You’re fooling ’em some to-day, Lefty, my
bucko.”</p>
<p>On the bench Billy Orth mopped his pale, perspiring
face. “Great scissors!” he breathed.
“I believe he’s going to pull out now. If he does,
I’ll own up that I don’t know when a man has
gone to the bad.”</p>
<p>The crowd implored Aldrich as they saw him
advancing to take the place of the thoroughly disgusted
Logie. The game hung by a thread, ready
to drop into the laps of the Specters. Could
Bush cut that thread?</p>
<p>“You’re there, all right, Lefty,” said Nelson,
grinning through the wires of his mask. “If<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span>
they wait for you to hand ’em the game, they’re
fooled.”</p>
<p>Locke made no retort. In position to pitch, he
faced Grant and looked to see if the captain gave
him a signal to throw to third. But, remembering
the wild heave to first, even though Murray
was taking a perilous lead, Spider withheld the
signal.</p>
<p>“Get Aldrich,” he said. “That’s all you have
to do.”</p>
<p>Locke’s first pitch to Aldrich was high, and the
batter, after starting to swing, checked himself
in time to get the benefit of a called ball.</p>
<p>Nelson returned the sphere promptly. Lefty
muffed the toss, brushed his hand across his eyes,
picked the ball up, and toed the plate.</p>
<p>There was a sudden wild yell of warning.
Murray, spurred by desperation, securing a good
lead off third, had started on the jump for the
plate. It was an attempt to steal home.</p>
<p>“Here, here!” shouted Nelson, leaping forward
to take the ball.</p>
<p>To the dismay of the Blue Stockings, Locke
turned to look toward third before throwing.
Apparently he was surprised and dazed by failing
to perceive Murray anywhere in the vicinity
of that sack. Nor did he at that time seem to
see Dillingham coming up from second as fast as
he could leg it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span></p>
<p>“The plate! Put it home!” shrieked Larry
Dalton.</p>
<p>Locke swung back slowly, almost heavily. At
that moment Bugs was flinging himself for the
slide to the pan, and it was too late to stop him.
That steal had tied the score.</p>
<p>Then Lefty did what would have been a foolish
thing had he made a perfect throw. Swinging
back, he pegged the ball to third, although Dillingham
was within ten feet of the sack when the
sphere left the pitcher’s fingers.</p>
<p>Leaping high, and reaching as far as he could,
Jack Daly felt the ball barely graze the end of
his gloved fingers. Away it went toward the left-field
bleachers, and the coacher sent Dillingham
on to the plate.</p>
<p>Joe Welch got the ball, and lined it to the pan
in a hopeless attempt to stop that second run.
The throw was a bit wide; and when Nelson, lunging
with the ball, tagged Dillingham, the umpire
spread out his open hands, palms downward.</p>
<p>The game was over! Locke had thrown it
away at last.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI<br>
<small>HOT WORDS</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">In a small, bare room of the clubhouse Al Carson
waited, his face dark as a storm cloud.
At times he muttered to himself. From the
adjoining quarters of the defeated players there
came no sounds of joshing or laughter. The loss
of this game was a disagreeable pill for either
management or men to swallow.</p>
<p>After a time a heavy step sounded outside, the
door opened, and Lefty Locke appeared before
the manager. He was pale now beneath his
healthy tan, but still his once handsome, good-natured
face wore a sullen, defiant expression,
and his flinty eyes met Carson’s withering look
without wavering.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said, his voice strangely harsh,
“you sent for me.”</p>
<p>For a moment Carson felt that he was going
to blow up like a firecracker, but, somehow, he
managed to control himself in a measure.</p>
<p>“Yes, I sent for you,” he said. “I want to
hear what you have to say for yourself.”</p>
<p>“I’m not going to say anything.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span></p>
<p>“Oh, you’re not! You’re not going to say anything
after handing the Specters that game on a
platter? You’re not going to say a word after
an exhibition that would make a jackass weep?”</p>
<p>“I don’t see any tears in your eyes.”</p>
<p>Then Carson did go up. “You infernal, insolent,
swell-headed cub!” he shouted. “You
think you can talk to me that fashion just because
you happen to have a pull with—” Barely in
time he bit the sentence short. His breast heaving,
his nostrils distended, he announced: “I’ll
show you! I’ll teach you that you can’t deliberately
throw a game!”</p>
<p>“Any man who says I ever deliberately threw
a game is a liar!”</p>
<p>Rarely in his baseball career had a player
talked to Carson like that. The manager could
scarcely believe the evidence of his ears, and
for a moment he choked, his face purple, in an
effort to articulate.</p>
<p>“I oughter beat your head off!” he finally
ground forth.</p>
<p>“Try it!” invited Locke.</p>
<p>The manager knew better than to try it. That
tall, compact, finely built man looked like a thorough
athlete, and just now the expression on his
face seemed to betoken that he would gladly welcome
a hand-to-hand scrap with anyone.</p>
<p>“I won’t maul you,” panted Carson.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span></p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” regretted the southpaw.</p>
<p>“But I’ll teach you something, just the same.
You’re fined twenty-five and suspended.”</p>
<p>For a moment or two Lefty was silent. “Perhaps
you think you can make that penalty stick,”
he said presently. “Perhaps you think, simply
because I lost a game—I’m not denying I lost it—you
can call me into a private room and browbeat
me, and fine me when I fail to cower and eat
humble pie.”</p>
<p>“I’m fining you for your rotten work on the
field. I’d fined you then and there if I’d got hold
of you before you loped off.”</p>
<p>“You’re fining me from pure malicious revenge,
nothing else. As a manager you play your favorites,
and I don’t happen to be one of them.”</p>
<p>“Shut up!” roared Carson. “Shut up, or I’ll
double it!”</p>
<p>“Double and be—hanged! I don’t have to
play baseball for a living. You can suspend me
as long as you please. I’m getting tired of the
game, anyway, and thinking about quitting.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you’re a quitter, all right. I reckon old
Brennan, of the Hornets, had you sized up about
right in the first place.” Carson’s total lack of
diplomacy was amazing. Had he tried, with deliberate
forethought, to create an unbridgable
breach between himself and the left-hander, he
could not have chosen a surer course. “The yellow<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span>
streak always crops up sooner or later in
any man who has it,” he went on. “You can
pitch, with everything breaking for you, but you
lack heart. A little streak of success swelled you
up till you began to think yourself a king-pin.
You had an idea that you were a better man than
Pete Grist, and now—”</p>
<p>“Have you finished?” interrupted Lefty, his
voice quivering strangely. “I think I’d better
go. In about ten seconds more I’ll do something
that will put me liable to a fine for assault and
battery.”</p>
<p>His attitude was that of a man about to attack
another when the door opened and Charles Collier
entered, followed by a clean-looking, tall
young man. Both stopped and stared in astonishment
at the tableau.</p>
<p>“What—what’s the matter here?” spluttered
the owner of the Blue Stockings. “What’s the
trouble, Carson?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing,” answered the manager. “Nothing,
only this fellow threatens me with assault
when I give him a call-down for his wooden-headed
work in that last inning.”</p>
<p>“Really, Locke, I’m astonished,” said Collier,
beginning to show a touch of anger himself.
“You must know Mr. Carson has a right to feel
sore.”</p>
<p>“But he hasn’t a right to blackguard me. He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span>
can do that with other men, perhaps, but he can’t
put it over on me.”</p>
<p>“I’m simply telling him the cold facts,” the
manager hastened to assert. “He thinks himself
so high and mighty that no one has a right to
say a thing to him. He’s been coddled and
spoiled. There’s no surer way to spoil a cub
than to feed him taffy. It’s his first season out
of the bush, and he’s beginning to reckon himself
a second Walter Johnson.”</p>
<p>“You’re both excited,” said Collier, in an attempt
to be soothing. “Of course, there’s a good
reason, the game to-day meaning so much, but
it’s better to talk these things over in cold blood.
Let’s calm down a little, all of us.”</p>
<p>His effort to cast oil on the troubled waters
was partly successful, as far as Carson was concerned;
for the manager did not wish the magnate
to think him a person to lose his temper unreasonably
in dealing with any player.</p>
<p>“I called him in to talk it over decently,” he
said; “but he became nasty right off the reel.”</p>
<p>“Any man can talk to me decently,” muttered
Lefty, though the resentful light still lingered in
his eyes.</p>
<p>“That’s right, my boy; that’s the way to feel,”
said Collier, rubbing his hands. “It’s too bad
we lost the game, but we’ll simply have to fight
the harder for the rest of the series. If we break<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span>
even, we’ll still have it on the Specters. Perhaps
Hazelton has been working too hard. I understand
Kennedy used him a great deal. Perhaps
he needs a rest.”</p>
<p>“Maybe he does,” growled Carson. “Anyhow,
I’m going to give him one.”</p>
<p>“It’s likely a few days will put him back into
form. My daughter is a good judge of baseball
players, and she has confidence in Lefty.”</p>
<p>The young man who had entered with the owner
moved his shoulders uneasily, and bit his lip.
Suddenly Collier seemed to remember him.</p>
<p>“Mr. Carson,” he said, “let me introduce a
man who wanted to meet you. A friend of myself
and daughter—Mr. Parlmee. Shake hands
with Carson, Franklin.”</p>
<p>“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Carson,” said
Parlmee, as he gave the manager his hand.</p>
<p>“And Mr. Hazelton, too,” said the magnate,
with a wave toward the southpaw. “Son of an
old friend of mine. Unfortunately, his father
has a prejudice against baseball, so he’s playing
under the name of Locke.”</p>
<p>For the first time since the appearance of the
club owner and his companion, Lefty’s eyes rested
on the face of the latter. In a moment he was
vaguely aware that he had seen the man before,
but not until Parlmee had bowed coldly, without
an attempt to shake hands, did Locke recall the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span>
occasion. Then he remembered how in the last
home game with the Specters, while he was talking
with Virginia Collier, he had seen a young
man watching him gloweringly from the stand.
This was the same man, and between the two
there existed a singular feeling of antipathy, as
yet unaccounted for in the pitcher’s mind.</p>
<p>Suddenly it seemed to Lefty that everything
was against him, the whole world—fate, even.</p>
<p>“If there’s nothing more,” he said, his voice
cold and harsh, “I think I’ll be going.”</p>
<p>“Sullen dog,” said Parlmee, when the door had
closed behind the departing man.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII<br>
<small>THE UNAPPROACHABLE LOCKE</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">“Men go stale on college teams,” said
Charles Collier apologetically. “Perhaps
that’s the trouble with Locke.”</p>
<p>“He ain’t stale,” asserted Carson. “That
ain’t the trouble with him. Look how he pitched
when he wanted to.”</p>
<p>“He seemed very erratic to me,” put in Parlmee.
“I’ve seen plenty of pitchers like him.
They’re never to be depended on.”</p>
<p>“But you haven’t seen him at his best,” said
the club owner. “This is the first full game
you’ve ever seen him pitch. He certainly was
reliable enough earlier in the season.”</p>
<p>“The only trouble with him is in that swelled
bean of his,” declared Carson. “Under Kennedy
he was petted and coddled and made to believe
he was the real thing, spelled with capitals.
As soon as he gets the same deal from me that
every other man is getting, and is handled on his
merits, he turns ugly.”</p>
<p>“I suppose,” observed Collier, “he has an idea
that you rate Grist at the top of the list.”</p>
<p>“Well, why shouldn’t I? Look at Grist’s record<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span>
and experience. There’s more baseball in his
little finger than this cub has learned yet. If
we’d had old Peter on the mound to-day—”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you put him in when you saw the
youngster wabbling?”</p>
<p>“Put him in, and then have it said I gave
Locke the hook without reason? Who could
foresee the fellow was going to throw the game
at the last minute? I know he threatened to
blow up several times, but he always tightened.
Two were gone when he let Murray steal home.
Even then there’d been a chance, for I might have
run in another man; but he followed his dumbness
up with a fool heave to the left-field bleachers.
There wasn’t a bit of sense in it, and, unless
he was trying to pass over the game, I can’t
understand why he did it.”</p>
<p>“It was the silliest thing I ever saw a pitcher
do,” asserted Franklin Parlmee.</p>
<p>“I admit that it was crazy,” agreed Collier.
“But he can pitch, and we need the best that’s
in our twirling staff in order to keep first place
this year. The loss of a single pitcher would be
pretty sure to fix us now. You’ve got to use
sober judgment, Carson, if you land the championship,
and doing that means something to you,
as well as myself. The old burg will support a
winning team and make it a money-maker, but
it hasn’t much stomach for losers.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span></p>
<p>“You can bank on it, Mr. Collier,” said Carson,
“that I’m going to do my level best to land on
top. I’m not in the game, any more than you are,
for the fun there is in it. If you hadn’t reckoned
I knew my business, I wouldn’t be where I am
now.”</p>
<p>“Surely not,” agreed the owner. “Kennedy
did a good turn last season, and I’d not thought
of displacing him if he’d shown an ability to keep
the bunch united. Jealousy and cliques on a ball
team always put it to the bad. It’s up to you to
smooth things out, and I’m afraid you’re not
succeeding. But for internal troubles, the Blue
Stockings’ lead now would make it practically impossible
for the Specters or any other team to
head ’em.”</p>
<p>Al Carson was not at all pleased by the criticism
of his employer, but he had sufficient good
sense to repress open resentment. He made the
plea that he should be given time to “smooth
out the wrinkles.”</p>
<p>“If I’m going to be given full swing,” he said,
“I think I should have it. I let Locke go the
limit to-day because of criticism in my handling
of him. Give me the proper rope, Mr. Collier,
and I’ll deliver the goods; but no manager can
do that unless he’s unhampered.”</p>
<p>“It has never been my intention to interfere in
a way to hamper you,” returned Collier a bit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span>
tartly. “Naturally, I presume I have the right
to talk things over with you.”</p>
<p>Half apologetically Carson hastened to state
that it was not his intention to question that
point.</p>
<p>“Leave me to handle this grouchy man,” he
promised, “and I’ll bring him into harness. I
know we need him to do a certain amount of pitching,
but he’s got to understand that there’s such
a thing as discipline. He ought to know he can’t
be sassy to his manager.”</p>
<p>While this talk was in progress Lefty’s teammates,
starting for their hotel in a motor bus,
wondered what had become of him. It was Rufe
Hyland who announced that he had seen Locke
taking a trolley car all by himself.</p>
<p>“S’pose he feels rotten,” said Rufe, “and so
he sneaked.”</p>
<p>“There was something doing ’tween him and
the old man,” said Kid Lewis. “Carson called
him for a private confab, and I heard sounds of
fireworks.”</p>
<p>“It’s a shame,” said Laughing Larry, looking
strangely doleful, “a beastly shame he had that
spasm in the ninth.”</p>
<p>“Spasm?” growled Herman Brock. “Looked
to me more like a trance. What ailed him, anyhow?”</p>
<p>“What’s been ailing him for some days?”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span>
questioned Jack Daly. “He don’t eat, and I happen
to know he ain’t sleeping well.”</p>
<p>Dalton knew this also, although he had said
nothing about it. Suddenly, to the surprise of
the others, Grist, who had taken no part in the
conversation, spoke up.</p>
<p>“The boy must be off his feed,” said Pete.
“Any youngster is apt to have a slump. Give
him time and he’ll come round.”</p>
<p>Now this was particularly generous of Grist,
who at other times, with Lefty going at his best,
had shown a disposition to belittle the southpaw’s
fine work. Promptly Dalton’s heart warmed
toward the old veteran.</p>
<p>“You’re right, Pete,” he said, “and mebbe
you’re the very one to put him back on his pins.”</p>
<p>“Me?” grunted Grist.</p>
<p>“Yes, you.”</p>
<p>“How y’ mean?”</p>
<p>“By talking to him. By encouraging him.”</p>
<p>“Huh!” grunted the old twirler. “He wouldn’t
listen to me.”</p>
<p>“I believe he would, Pete. Lefty’s a ripping
fine fellow when he’s right—the finest ever. He’s
generous and whole-souled, without a touch of
jealousy in his make-up. All of a sudden he’s
gone wrong, and nobody can account for it. His
particular friends can’t talk to him. They’ve
tried.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span></p>
<p>“Then I dunno why I should waste my breath,”
said Grist slowly. “Likely he’d jump on me and
sink his spikes to the sole leather.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe it,” protested Larry earnestly.
“He acts like he’d somehow got a fool notion that
everybody’s sore on him. Now, if he saw that you
didn’t feel that way—”</p>
<p>“All right,” snapped Grist shortly. “Leave
it to me; I’ll talk to him like a father to a wayward
son.”</p>
<p>“But be careful,” cautioned Dalton. “Handle
him right.”</p>
<p>“Leave it to me, I tell yer,” advised Grist once
more.</p>
<p>That night Lefty ate alone at the hotel, shunning
his teammates. He picked at his food like a
man insulting his appetite, if he had one. When
he left the dining room and walked out through
the lobby without looking to the right or left,
Grist followed him.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later Grant, Hyland, and Dalton,
chatting in a front window, were startled to see
old Peter appear before them, his face the picture
of anger and disgust.</p>
<p>“Say,” snorted the veteran twirler, “when
anybody gets me to try anything like that again
he’ll know it. Why, that dub would slap his
grandmother’s face if she peeped to him. I overtook
him by chance on the street and tried to talk<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span>
decent. What did I get? He seemed to think I
was trying to rub something into him, and I
couldn’t argue it out of his dumb noddle. The
more I said the dirtier he got. I just had to
give it up and quit sudden before I forgot myself
and handed him a bunch of fives. Anybody that
wants to talk to him hereafter can do so. <em>Excuse
me!</em>”</p>
<p>“He wouldn’t listen?” asked Dalton in deep
disappointment. “Did you make him understand
that your motives were friendly?”</p>
<p>“Dunno. I tried hard enough. ’Twan’t no
good. If anybody else’d met me that way, I’d
soaked him. Now I’m done with Lefty Locke.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII<br>
<small>UNDER A CLOUD</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Sometimes it takes very little to upset the
poise of a Big League team. Even when
a winning organization is running smoothly,
an injury to a single player may throw the whole
machinery out of mesh. To an outsider—a mere
spectator who has not studied the peculiarities of
baseball at close range—this often seems unaccountable.
To him, in a club with first-class substitutes
waiting to fill the position of any man,
there seems to be no reason why the loss of a
regular player should make such a remarkable
difference in the work of the entire outfit.</p>
<p>Few outsiders realize how evenly matched the
clubs often are in the first division. Many times
the action of an astute manager in replacing a
player who seems to be doing splendid work in
his position with another player, apparently no
better, has turned a losing club into a winner, the
secret of this being that the man substituted
fitted in more nicely with the fine adjustment of
the great machine, like a perfectly made pinion
in the works of a watch.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span></p>
<p>It is not drawing it too fine to compare a first-class
Big League team to a high-grade watch.
Time after time the spectators wonder at the
clockwork precision of the living machine upon
the field. Now and then, at rare intervals, of
course, this piece of machinery temporarily goes
wrong; but a little oiling or adjusting puts it
right again, and it once more resumes its accurate,
methodical, mechanical course.</p>
<p>The pitching staff may be likened to the mainspring
of the watch. Without pitchers of the
highest grade any club, no matter how strong it
may be in other departments, is badly handicapped;
with such a staff it often happens that
a team of otherwise inferior caliber makes no
end of trouble and worriment for the leaders.
And, despite his ill-advised handling of
Lefty Locke, no one knew this better than Al
Carson.</p>
<p>When it became known that Lefty had been
fined and suspended, some of his teammates attempted
to condole with him in a cheerful, joshing
way, but not one of them repeated such advances;
for he cut them short with such snappy,
savage abruptness that they were justified in
their resentment of his manner.</p>
<p>The second game of the series between the
Specters and the Blue Stockings proved to be a
slugging match, in which each team used three<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span>
pitchers. Pink Dillon, starting for the visitors,
was pounded off the mound in the second inning
and replaced by Orth. He lasted until the seventh,
and then gave way to Grist, who took up
the burden with the locals leading by one run.
Even “Old Reliable” was not respected by the
Specters, who slashed his slants mercilessly.
Nevertheless, by a great batting rally in the
ninth, the Blue Stockings tied up the score. But
Grist was forced to work like a horse for three
more long innings before his teammates got to
Jim Donovan and hammered out the run which
finally gave them the game fourteen to thirteen.</p>
<p>The newspaper reporters called it a “swat
fest.” In his wire to the <cite>Blade</cite>, Jack Stillman,
on the road for his paper with the Blue Stockings,
vaguely hinted at future trouble for Carson on
account of the condition of his pitching staff.
Besides Carson himself, no one realized better
than Stillman the peril of this crucial period in
the great struggle.</p>
<p>Under suspension, Lefty Locke was not on the
bench with his teammates. Stillman, who had
twice tried to get an interview with Lefty, saw
him soberly watching the struggle from a portion
of the stand near the reporters’ section, and wondered
what really had happened to change this
fine, open-hearted fellow into a gloomy grouch.</p>
<p>“I’ll get at him again,” thought the reporter.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span>
“He’s got to talk to me. He can’t stand me off
like an iceberg.”</p>
<p>But after the game Locke disappeared with the
crowd that disappointedly melted away, and Stillman
was compelled to postpone his interview.</p>
<p>With his ears open for everything connected
with his business, the newspaper man that night
heard something which sent him in search of
Carson for confirmation. However, he obtained
little satisfaction from the manager. Then, remembering
his desire to have another talk with
Locke, he tried to find Lefty, and failed. The
southpaw was not in his room, and none of the
players seemed to know where he could be located.</p>
<p>In Dirk Nelson’s room Stillman found Kid
Lewis and Jack Daly lounging and talking things
over with the catcher. Being well liked by the
entire team, he was invited to join them.</p>
<p>“We was just figgerin’ on our chances to-morrer,”
said Daly. “We’ve got to have another
one of the games here to keep us afloat on the
roller.”</p>
<p>“If the Specters play the way they did to-day,”
said Stillman, “you ought to cop one more, anyhow.”</p>
<p>“Huh!” grunted the Kid, twisting off a chew
of tobacco with his square teeth, “seems to me
we didn’t shine like stars of the first magnitude
this <span class="allsmcap">P.M.</span> Why, with old Peter on the firing line<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span>
we was barely able to rake in the plum by one
measly run.”</p>
<p>“And the way Grist had to go, he won’t be in
any shape to-morrow,” said Nelson. “Neither
Orth nor Dillon can hold this bunch of sack
swipers, and, besides pitching yesterday, Locke’s
suspended. We’ve got a couple of reserves, but
Handy’s arm is broke in the middle, and Carney
has been sick for a month. Excuse my tears.”</p>
<p>“I wish you’d tell me,” said Stillman, “what’s
the matter with Locke, anyhow.”</p>
<p>“Tell <em>us</em>,” invited the trio in chorus.</p>
<p>The reporter shook his head. “I’ve tried to
find out, but he won’t talk to me. Anybody would
think,” he added in an injured way, “that I was
his worst enemy; and I was about the only news
man who pulled hard for him all the way after
he joined the Hornets in the South last spring.”</p>
<p>“He’s sick,” cried Nelson, thumping his knee.
“If he ain’t, he’s crazy, and oughter be shut up
somewhere with the rest of the bugs. Think of
him going wrong just now! Wouldn’t it make a
parson use bad language!”</p>
<p>“I heard something to-night,” said Stillman.
“I wonder if you fellows have got wind of it?
There’s a rumor that Carson has a deal on.”</p>
<p>“What sort of a deal?” asked Daly.</p>
<p>“A trade. They say he got busy on the wire
this morning, and that he’s trying to make arrangements<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span>
to trade Locke off for another
pitcher.”</p>
<p>“Who says so?” snapped Lewis.</p>
<p>“I don’t believe it!” shouted Daly.</p>
<p>“Thunder!” breathed Nelson.</p>
<p>“You know I can’t go round blowing the source
of my information,” said Stillman, “but it seemed
to come straight enough.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps it is straight,” said Nelson. “Carson
ain’t never took to Locke. But who’s the
man he’s after?”</p>
<p>“You couldn’t guess,” said the reporter. “I
won’t prolong your agony. If the report is true,
it’s Chick O’Brien, of the Wolves.”</p>
<p>Even with the warning he had given them, this
statement seemed to strike them like a bursting
bombshell. The Wolves, although in the second
division, had harried the leaders all through the
season, mainly by the marvelous work of O’Brien,
and it was generally agreed that with a first-division
team behind him Chick would show himself
one of the great pitchers in the business.</p>
<p>“Sufferin’ snakes!” cried Lewis, his face glowing
and his eyes snapping. “If we could get
Chick now, I’d begin right away planning how to
spend my post-season money.”</p>
<p>“Me, too,” agreed Daly.</p>
<p>“There’s nothing to it,” announced Nelson.
“You couldn’t pry O’Brien away from the Wolves<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span>
with a twenty-thousand dollar lever. Old Frazer
wouldn’t let him go for <em>two</em> youngsters like Locke
and a barrel of money to boot. Every manager
in the league has been after him, and Frazer’s
held on with the grip of death, knowing the
Wolves would go plumb into the sub-cellar without
Chick.”</p>
<p>“Collier’s got the dough to buy almost anything,
and he’s a plunger when he gets started,”
said Stillman. “I reckon he’d be willing to lose
money this season to cop the championship again.
Anyhow, Carson wouldn’t deny that he was trying
to put such a deal across. He wouldn’t say anything
about it.”</p>
<p>“Whether it’s true or not, the story is bad for
Locke,” said Nelson; “and if it gets to his ears
it’s going to make him worse than he is.”</p>
<p>“Or brace him up,” put in Daly. “Mebbe it
will do that.”</p>
<p>Of course, the rumor spread swiftly, and in
short order every man on the team had heard of
it, save Locke himself. For reasons, no one told
Lefty.</p>
<p>The fears of the Blue Stockings seemed justified
when the Specters walked away with the
third game of the series by a score of eight to
two. Such a defeat, instead of disheartening
them, seemed to fire them with desperation, and the
fourth and final game proved to be another terrific<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span>
battle, in which the two teams seesawed from
start to finish, resorting to every legitimate device
and trick as opportunities arose. Nevertheless,
only for a fluke in the eighth inning, the locals
doubtless would have taken the game.</p>
<p>With two down and two on the cushions, Herman
Brock banged the ball into deep left, and it
went bounding to the fence, with Forbes in hot
pursuit. The fielder had been playing deep,
knowing Brock’s menace as a slugger, and, but
for an unforeseen freak of fate, he doubtless
would have secured the ball and held the enemy
to a single run. It happened, however, that close
to the ground there was a small hole in the fence—a
hole barely large enough to push an ordinary
baseball through; and never before had the sphere
sought out that little opening hidden by a thin
fringe of grass. Now, with seeming perverseness,
it went straight through the hole, giving Brock a
homer and putting the visitors again in the lead.</p>
<p>Orth had been wabbling, and Carson had wisely
kept Dillon warming up all through the game.
Now, when the Specters came to bat again, the
manager took a chance and sent Pink to the
hillock.</p>
<p>Strange as it seemed, the slants and benders of
this second-string pitcher, which had been so easy
for the locals to fathom two days before, now
proved tremendously puzzling. And, though the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span>
fighting “ghosts” became menacing in both the
eighth and ninth, they could not quite succeed in
pushing a runner round the course.</p>
<p>Therefore, for all of the tattered condition of
their pitching staff, the Blue Stockings broke even
in the series with their most dangerous rivals.</p>
<p>But they were now to invade the territory of
the Terriers, always to be feared, and the dark
cloud swung lower.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX<br>
<small>THE STRANGER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">The train was swinging along through
open, rolling country when Locke, now
being left severely to himself on account
of his churlishness by his resentful teammates,
tired of gazing dully at the flying landscape, rose
and passed down the aisle of the special car.
Scarcely anyone seemed to observe him, and he
noticed no one. When he had disappeared, however,
Billy Orth shook his head and turned to
Larry Dalton.</p>
<p>“Thundering shame, Larry,” he said in a low
tone. “Do you know, I think I’ve solved the
trouble.”</p>
<p>“Then you’re wiser than the rest of us.”</p>
<p>“It’s the girl business, to begin with.”</p>
<p>“Oh, we’ve all guessed that much, but being
thrown down by a girl isn’t enough to put an
ordinary well-balanced chap, same as Lefty
seemed to be, all to the punk. Of course, it
might affect a fellow, but it wouldn’t turn him
from a fine, jolly soul into a sour, nasty-tempered,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span>
unreasoning grump. You’ve got to go farther,
Billy.”</p>
<p>“I have been,” asserted the other with assurance.</p>
<p>“What way?”</p>
<p>“He’s taken to hitting the booze.”</p>
<p>“No!” breathed Laughing Larry incredulously.
“Why, he never drank. He’d take a glass of
beer now and then, to be sure, but you couldn’t
drive a drink of hard stuff into him. You’re
wrong, Orth.”</p>
<p>“When a man gets double crossed in love he’s
liable to do any freakish thing, and lots of ’em
affiliate with the jag juice.”</p>
<p>“But Locke hasn’t been full. No one has
seen him under the influence.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps he’s under the influence right now.
Perhaps he’s keeping about so much redeye in his
skin all the time. Maybe that’s why he herds by
himself so much. He sure has had plenty of
chance to drink by his lonesome lately.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but— Oh, say, you’ve got to have something
better than mere supposition to base this
on.”</p>
<p>“I have.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Saw him coming out of a saloon last night.
Couldn’t believe my eyes at first, but it was Lefty,
sure. You know firewater works in peculiar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span>
ways with some men. Occasionally it turns a
jolly good fellow into an ugly dog. Lefty hasn’t
hit it up enough to stagger or show the usual
signs, but in his effort to drown his sorrow he’s
taken just enough to change him completely.
Something ought to be done. But when a fellow
is absolutely unapproachable, what can you do?”</p>
<p>“What can you?” echoed Larry.</p>
<p>In the meantime, passing through the train,
Lefty had entered the ordinary smoker, which
chanced to be so well filled that nearly every seat
was taken. Through a blue haze of smoke he
peered in search of a seat as he walked along the
aisle. Suddenly a young man took a brierwood
pipe from his mouth, stared hard at the pitcher,
and rose to his feet.</p>
<p>“By Jove! Phil Hazelton!” he exclaimed.
“Why, how are you, old man?”</p>
<p>Lefty stared, unsmiling, at the speaker, apparently
failing to notice the extended hand.</p>
<p>“Pardon me,” he said; “I don’t remember
you.”</p>
<p>“Don’t remember me?” cried the other incredulously.
“Great Scott! Have I changed so
much? I know I’m threatened with premature
baldness, but still it can’t be that in such a short
time you’ve forgotten Walt Hetner.”</p>
<p>“Hetner?” said Locke, frowning and shaking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span>
his head in a puzzled way. “I don’t have the
slightest recollection of you.”</p>
<p>“Cæsar’s ghost! I knew you at Princeton.
We were college mates.”</p>
<p>“Princeton?” said Lefty. “Yes, I was at
Princeton, I believe.”</p>
<p>“You pitched for the varsity nine. Your old
man didn’t like it, and was pretty sore. I’ve
heard lately that you’ve gone into professional
baseball. Don’t get a chance to see many games
myself nowadays, but the report is that you’re
<em>some pitcher</em> for the Blue Stockings.”</p>
<p>“I have been pitching for them,” admitted
Locke slowly. “Sorry I don’t remember you.”</p>
<p>His pride hurt, Hetner sank back into his seat,
and Lefty passed on. The rebuffed man turned
to his companion, who was an old acquaintance he
had met on the train.</p>
<p>“Well, wouldn’t that frost you some, Wilson?”
he exclaimed, his face flushed. “Why, I knew
that fellow at college as well as I know you, and
he’s the last man I’d expect to hand out anything
of that sort.”</p>
<p>“Do you think he didn’t recognize you, Doctor?”</p>
<p>“Recognize me? Of course he did. That’s
what makes me hot. I don’t know why he should
play the cad. It’s beyond me. Perhaps he’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span>
ashamed of the fact that he’s playing professional
baseball under a fake name.”</p>
<p>“Still,” said Wilson, “he might be decent, at
least.”</p>
<p>Lefty came to a seat in which a slender, pallid,
sad-eyed young man sat alone.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon, stranger,” he said; “is
this seat taken?”</p>
<p>The young man started a bit, glanced up, and
smiled faintly.</p>
<p>“No, it isn’t taken, pal,” he answered. “But
how the dickens did you happen to know my
name?”</p>
<p>“Your name?” said Lefty, sinking down, a
puzzled frown plowing a deep furrow between his
eyes.</p>
<p>“Yes. You called me Stranger. That’s my
monacker—Robert Stranger; Bob for short.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I get you,” said Lefty, failing to return
the young man’s engaging smile. “It was just
by chance that I called you that.”</p>
<p>“Well, for a moment I thought you knew me.
It’s mighty lonesome taking this jaunt without
anybody to chin to, and I’m glad you came along.
Traveling alone yourself?”</p>
<p>“In a way I am,” answered Lefty, betraying a
willingness to talk to this chance acquaintance
which would have surprised his antagonized
friends in the special car. “I’m a ball player,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span>
but I ducked to get away from the rest of the
bunch. They’re on this train.”</p>
<p>“Oh, a ball player!” murmured Mr. Stranger.
“Professional? Big League?”</p>
<p>“The Blue Stockings.”</p>
<p>“They’re some,” beamed the man by the car
window. “Of course I hear plenty of baseball
talk. Can’t help it. But I never did take to the
game much. It may sound like bunk to you, but I
never saw a real game in my life.”</p>
<p>“Really?” said Lefty, in an expressionless way.
“That is rather odd.”</p>
<p>“S’pose I’m a crank,” laughed the other; “but
all the guff I hear and see in the newspapers about
baseball makes me weary; it sure does. Seems
like ninety per cent. of the population has gone
dippy about the game. Once on a time I was mistook
for a pitcher I happened to look like. A gent
blew up and called me by that ball tosser’s name
and asked me how I was coming on at it. He
didn’t believe me when I told him I’d never
pitched a ball in my life. Why, I don’t know a
curve from a wedge of restaurant pie.”</p>
<p>“You’re a rare bird,” said Lefty.</p>
<p>“I am, pal, and I’m rather proud of it.”</p>
<p>“What’s your business, if it’s not too personal?”</p>
<p>The young man hesitated and coughed behind
his hand.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span></p>
<p>“I’m a—a diamond cutter,” he answered.
“That is, I have been, but I’ve had to give it up
on account of my health. Too confining, you
know. I’m not much on being confined,” he continued
oddly. “You can see it has rather taken
hold of me. My health isn’t just what it should
be.”</p>
<p>“I noticed you were unusually pale.”</p>
<p>“That comes from confinement. A pill slinger
told me it would be a good thing for me to get
out into the country and find a job somewhere in
the open air. I’m looking for work on a farm.
The rural life for mine, far from the lure of high-cut
swinging doors. Between us, pal, I’ve hit it
up a bit too hard in my day. I always was a
wild one,” he went on garrulously. “Even when
I was a boy I touched too many of the high spots.
I’ve been a mark, too. Ever play poker? Well,
I’ve been the easiest dub you ever saw at that
game. But I like it. Can’t seem to keep away
from it. Every time I get a roll on hand I go
searching for a game and someone to pass the
velvet over to. Even now I’ve got a little wad
of long green that’s burning in my pocket. Before
you came along I was thinking I’d like to
find three or four good sports and get up a little
game.”</p>
<p>“I don’t play poker—for blood,” said Lefty.
“A bunch on the team are at it every chance they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span>
get; though, of course, they only play a little
game.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that would suit me. I don’t want to
really gamble, you know. I’m a minister’s son.”</p>
<p>Lefty refrained from saying that he was another.</p>
<p>“Brought up in a straight-laced family,”
Stranger went on. “My old man thought cards
the tools of Satan. And my mother”—a cloud
seemed to come to his face and his smile faded—“it
broke her heart when she found out I was
playing penny ante with a bunch of game lads.
Mebbe that’s what finished her. The old gent
didn’t last long after she was put away under the
daisies.”</p>
<p>“Then your father and mother are both dead?”</p>
<p>“Both gone. But come, what’s the use to talk
of things like that? Let’s see if we can’t find a
couple of lonesome travelers looking for amusement.
Let’s start something. A little game of
poker to pass away—”</p>
<p>The sentence never was finished. At this moment
there came a sudden jarring, grinding,
crashing sound. A broken rail had given way on
a curve, and it shot half the train from the track
to strew it into a splintered mass of wreckage
along the foot of the embankment.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX<br>
<small>THE RETIRED MANAGER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Throughout his baseball career it had
been the object of old Jack Kennedy to
quit the game voluntarily with honors
and retire to his little Ohio farm in the town of
Deering. Being of a somewhat frugal turn, he
had saved from his earnings while in the game
enough to pay for the farm to the last dollar,
which was a matter of no small satisfaction to
him when Charles Collier, the new owner of the
Blue Stockings, dropped him from the management
of the team in order to give Al Carson that
position.</p>
<p>Without egotism, Kennedy knew himself to be
more capable than Carson; but still he made no
protest, and, in spite of his evident regret over
bidding the players good-by, he succeeded very
well in hiding the sore spot.</p>
<p>“I’m done with baseball, boys,” he said.
“Henceforth it’s the rural life for me, raising
corn and pumpkins and garden sass in general.
If any of you ever come through my way, don’t
forget where I live. You’ll make a hit with me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span>
if you take my wigwam for the home plate and
squat on the bench at my fireside.”</p>
<p>Kennedy knew full well the real trouble with
the Blue Stockings, and it had been his object to
break up the cliques and smooth out the wrinkles
on the team in his own level-headed way. He
knew also that Carson was due to have his troubles,
and, like the generous man he was, he had
approached the new manager and attempted to
put him wise. These advances, however, were not
pleasing to Carson, who had cut him short in a
way that caused Kennedy to bottle up abruptly.</p>
<p>“All right,” old Jack had muttered to himself.
“All right, my wise gink. Go your way and see
where you land. I’m betting it won’t be on top.”</p>
<p>Despite the fact that he had said he was done
with baseball, it was no more than natural that
he should keep track of the career of the Blue
Stockings under the new management, and the
sporting department of the big daily newspaper
he received regularly by mail was the first page
examined. Each day he drove a mile and a half
into town to get the two o’clock mail, and the letters
he received never seemed to have much attraction
for him until he had ripped off the cover
of his paper, glanced at the percentage of the
Big League teams, and perused the report of the
last contest in which the Blue Stockings had participated.
While he was doing this his face was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span>
a study. Sometimes he would smile, but more
often he frowned and shook his head, and occasionally
he muttered to himself. Once a man,
standing near, was startled to hear him suddenly
exclaim:</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with the boy, anyhow?
Either he’s slumped or Carson’s handing him a
rotten deal.”</p>
<p>Of course he was speaking of Lefty Locke, and
when, later, he saw a printed reference to the
southpaw’s poor form, he puzzled still more over
the matter. For Kennedy had realized the need
of new blood on the pitching staff of the Blue
Stockings, and had banked a good deal on the
ability of Locke to aid in holding the team in first
place.</p>
<p>With an excellent overseer on his farm, old
Jack did not labor hard enough to hurt himself.
The truth was, he found it difficult to step directly
from the baseball harness into something so
wholly different and so decidedly tame and monotonous
by comparison. At times he fretted a
little, although he did his best to overcome the
restless spells that assailed him.</p>
<p>“When an old race horse is turned out to pasture,”
he told himself, “it’s a good thing for him
to realize that his track days are over.”</p>
<p>Now it chanced that the town of Deering supported
one of the teams which composed a four-cornered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span>
bush league, and, although the loyal
citizens had put their hands deep into their pockets
to finance the club, the “Deers,” as the local
organization was known, were running a rather
bad third in the race. This fact was the cause
of no small dissatisfaction to Peter McLaughlin,
proprietor of the Central House, the principal
hotel, and one of the most generous contributors
to the fund. In the old days McLaughlin had
played baseball a little himself, and he was confident
now that he knew just where the trouble with
the local club lay.</p>
<p>“It’s in the management,” he told the other
members of the board of directors. “Sperry
made a record as manager for a little jerkwater
college club, therefore he thinks he knows all about
it. But I tell you he’s no match for old Hank
Bristol, of the Buccaneers, to say nothing of Hi
Pelty, who’s handling the Stars. Last year, this
time, the Buccaneers were in third place, where
we are now, and we was banging away trying to
get ahead of the Stars. This year we’re down
next to the Boobs in the basement, and unless
something’s done even that bunch of dummies will
get ahead of us. Sperry better throw up his job
as manager and stick to his regular business drawing
sody water at Folsom’s drug store.”</p>
<p>“If he did that,” said Lawyer Gange, secretary
of the baseball association, “who’d we get to fill<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span>
his place? Nobody else wants the job—unless
you do, Peter.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” said McLaughlin. “I’ve got my
own business to look after. I’ve coughed up a
hundred bucks to back the team, and I’m ready to
put in another hundred if necessary, but I couldn’t
waste my time trying to run the outfit, even if I
knew how.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s the way with the rest of us, so
what are we going to do?”</p>
<p>“I’ve got an idea. There’s Jack Kennedy
home on his farm, and he knows more baseball in
a minute than anybody in this town, or in the
whole league, for that matter, except possibly old
Hank Bristol. If we could get Kennedy to—”</p>
<p>“<em>If</em> we could,” exclaimed Rufe Manning, the
treasurer. “There’s that if. You don’t s’pose
Kennedy would monkey with a little bush team
like ours after being manager of Big League
champs, do yer?”</p>
<p>“No tellin’. Perhaps he might.”</p>
<p>“He won’t,” said the lawyer. “He told me
himself that he was done with baseball. Why, he
hasn’t even had interest enough since coming
home to see one of our games, though he’s been
invited to do so.”</p>
<p>“No tellin’ what can be done with him,” persisted
the hotel proprietor. “He ought to have
enough local pride to want to see his own town<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span>
stand well in this league. If somebody could
prick that pride a little, mebbe he’d take holt. I
don’t reckon he’s workin’ himself to death on his
farm. He’s got the time.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re the man to try him,” said Gange.
“It’s up to you, Peter.”</p>
<p>“All right,” agreed Peter. “Leave it to me
and I’ll see what I can do. We’re going up
against Bristol’s bunch of Buccaneers this afternoon,
and I’ll look out for Kennedy if he comes in
for his mail same as usual.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI<br>
<small>BACK IN THE GAME</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">When he cornered old Jack at the post
office, half an hour before the game
was to start, McLaughlin’s proposition
failed to arouse the retired manager’s interest.</p>
<p>“I’m done with the game, Peter,” said Kennedy.
“I’m just a plain farmer now. As long
as I don’t mean to get mixed up with it again, it’s
best that I should keep away from the field.”</p>
<p>“Do you know, Jack,” said the hotel man,
“folks around here say you’ve got a grouch.
They say you’re sore on baseball ’cause you was
turned down. We’ve been rather proud of you
in this town. When you come home twice after
winning the championship we gave you a blow-out
both times. You seem to have forgot that.”</p>
<p>“No, I haven’t forgot it, Peter. But when a
man has quit a certain line of business, and quit
it for good, he’d better cease to monkey with it.
With me baseball was a business for a good many
years. I own up that I was rather proud of my
record at it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span></p>
<p>“And you was so proud of being manager of
Big League champs that now you won’t even ask
how the little fellers are doing in your own home
town. You used to set round my office winters
and talk it over with the boys and give them
points, but this time you’re changed so folks
scarcely know you. Why, there’s Hank Bristol,
manager of the Buccaneers, who’s asked for you
every time he hit Deering, saying as how he used
to know you well and he’d like to put his blinkers
on you again. He was some baseball player once
himself, and he’s pretty clever at it yet, as fur as
our sort of baseball goes. I should think you’d
like to see him operate around second base. He’s
up to the field right now with his bunch, and he
says he’s goin’ to drive another nail in our coffin.
His team ain’t only a few points behind the Stars,
and Hank reckons the pennant’s as good as
nailed.”</p>
<p>“Bristol always did talk a lot with his mouth,”
said Kennedy. “If he can’t win any other way,
he’ll bluff out a victory.”</p>
<p>It was the sore spot not yet healed which had
caused Kennedy to avoid Bristol; for Jack,
knowing old Hank would ask questions, was
far from eager to furnish explanations regarding
his sudden release by Collier.</p>
<p>“Oh, well, do as you’re a mind to,” said McLaughlin,
with pretended indifference. “I’ve<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span>
done some personal favors for you. When we
give you that banquet at the hotel last year—”</p>
<p>Flushing, Kennedy interrupted. “If you’re
going to put it up to me that way, Peter,” he said,
“I’ll go out and watch the game to-day. Perhaps
I can give your manager some tips that will help
him.”</p>
<p>In this manner it came about that Kennedy saw
the struggle that afternoon between the Deers
and the Buccaneers and warned the manager of
the former team, in the midst of the game, that
Bristol’s players had the signals of the locals and
were, therefore, forewarned and prepared for
every method of attack. This warning, however,
was not sufficient to prevent the Buccaneers from
winning. In the eighth inning they secured a lead
of two runs through their disposition to take
chances on the paths, and the failure of the Deering
pitcher to hold the runners close to the cushions,
and at the end of the ninth they were still
one tally to the good, although outbatted and outfielded.
With a supercilious, confident grin adorning his
homely face, Bristol encountered Kennedy after
the clash was over.</p>
<p>“You see how easy it is out here in the bush,
Ken, old hoss,” he chuckled. “It’s a reg’lar cinch
to make a winning team if you’ve got any mater’al<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span>
to work with. Before next week’s over we’ll be
leadin’. I took it easy to-day. Saved my best pill
slinger for the Stars to-morrow. Your poor little
Deers are due to find a resting place in a deep,
dark hole.”</p>
<p>“Don’t call them <em>my</em> Deers, Hank,” remonstrated
Kennedy. “I ain’t got nothing to do with
them. If I had—”</p>
<p>“It would be just the same, Jack, old boy.
You had a streak with the Blue Stockings, I own
up; but it was broke before they put Carson in
your place. I reckon you lost your rabbit’s foot.
If I’d ever had your chance—”</p>
<p>“You’ve had chances enough in your day,” cut
in Kennedy a trifle warmly. “I was about ready
to quit baseball, anyhow; that’s why I bought my
farm here.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you was always a clever gink holding on
to the dollars and salting ’em away,” returned
Bristol.</p>
<p>In truth, he was jealous of Kennedy’s success,
although he endeavored to disguise the fact beneath
a joshing exterior. Such joshing, however,
was not calculated to please.</p>
<p>“Let me tell you something, Hank,” said Kennedy.
“If the manager of this Deering bunch
knew his business he could eat you up. It wasn’t
much of a trick to swipe such a simple code of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span>
signals, and any sort of runners could steal on a
pitcher with a movement like Corey’s. Don’t get
so chesty.”</p>
<p>“Old hoss,” retorted the Buccaneer manager,
“if you had the Deers it would be just the same,
believe me.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps so,” said Kennedy.</p>
<p>Twenty minutes later he was talking with Peter
McLaughlin in a private room at the hotel.</p>
<p>“What was that proposition you made to me,
Peter?” he asked. “Did you say the town generally
thought Sperry inefficient as a manager and
wanted someone else?”</p>
<p>“That’s what I said,” answered the landlord.
“We’ve talked it over, and you’re the man we’d
like to have. Sperry would get out willingly, too.
He’s got about enough of it, with everybody
kickin’ at him.”</p>
<p>“If you’re giving it to me straight,” said Kennedy,
“I’ll stand. You may tell the association
that.”</p>
<p>At a meeting of the directors, called that night,
Sperry resigned as manager of the Deering baseball
team and Jack Kennedy was chosen to fill
the position vacated.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII<br>
<small>BUILDING UP THE TEAM</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">With the season three-quarters over,
it was no cinch for anybody to whip
into winning form a bush team like
the Deers, and Jack Kennedy soon realized that
he had a real problem on his hands. Having
shouldered the responsibility, however, he went
at it with the same conscientious earnestness he
would have devoted to a Big League organization,
and the bushers, who had been taking things
easy and “soldiering” under Sperry, quickly
learned that there would be no loafing or fooling
with the new manager. Whenever possible there
was regular forenoon practice, and when this
could not be secured it was necessary for the team
to appear on the playing field for a long warming-up
before any league game.</p>
<p>The code of signals arranged and put into use
by Sperry and Toots Kilgore, second baseman
and captain of the Deers, was promptly cast into
the discard. In place of these incomplete and
rather simple signals, old Jack introduced a new<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span>
code, at which the men were drilled on the field
and off, the requirement being that every one
of them should become so familiar with the signs
that there could be no possible misunderstanding,
doubt, or hesitation in any event.</p>
<p>Of course, Kennedy secured a suit for himself,
which enabled him not only to sit on the bench
and direct his men, but to go on to the coaching
lines or take the place of another player as a
pinch hitter or upon the field. The loose ends
were quickly gathered up, and the former hit-or-miss
style of going after a game was abandoned
for something bearing a genuine resemblance to
inside baseball.</p>
<p>Nor did it take old Jack long to perceive that
the arrangement of the team, as well as the batting
order, needed doctoring. His first move, of
course was to line up the batters so that their individual
work in offense would become as effective
as possible in securing runs. Almost simultaneously
he called to the bench the regular center
fielder, although that individual had established
a record in the league for his great ground covering,
sureness on flies, and splendidly accurate
long throws to the sacks or the plate. It was
Kennedy’s theory that all outfielders should be
hitters, and the man benched had the lowest batting
average on the team. The former first baseman
was sent out into the middle garden, where<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span>
he soon demonstrated that he had the making
of an outfielder.</p>
<p>The regular third baseman did not handle hot
grounders to Kennedy’s satisfaction, but in all
other ways he could cover the sack well, therefore
the manager switched him round to first, where
he would not get so many sizzling grass clippers.
This move proved to be a piece of wisdom, but
it left the third station vacant, and for some time
Kennedy was bothered to plug the hole. The
first person tried was Tim Coffin, the utility man,
who had been kept on the bench, but Coffin had
the same trouble with sharp ground hits. Nevertheless,
at bat he was certain to get one clean,
hard bingle a game, and his average was nearly
two, which created in Kennedy’s breast a strong
desire to keep him regularly at work.</p>
<p>“Have you ever done any backstopping, Coffin?”
asked the manager.</p>
<p>“A little,” was the reply. “I started out to
be a catcher.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got a good whip,” said old Jack.
“We’ll try you behind the pan to-day. Brinkley
will have a go at third.”</p>
<p>Behind the pan Coffin did a splendid turn, being
far more successful than Brinkley in stopping
base pilfering. Brinkley was one of those backstops
who could handle almost any sort of pitching
and rarely let a wild heave get past him if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span>
there was any possible way of touching it, but
his base throwing was erratic. The players of
every other team in the league knew this, but they
soon found that they could not reap the advantage
of a wild throw off Coffin at a critical time,
and their first efforts to do so cost them dearly.</p>
<p>But Brinkley was no third baseman, and Kennedy
kept the wires hot with distress signals in
his efforts to fill that position.</p>
<p>In response to one of those signals, Joe Digg
blew into Deering. Digg had come up from the
sand lots through the minors to the Big League,
where, after creating a sensation in the early part
of one season, he passed away in a blaze of red
fire. Drink had sent Joe back to the minors and
thence down into temporary oblivion. Kennedy
knew him as a crackajack third sacker and a
terror to pitchers when he was sober and in condition.
Old Jack met the new man at the station.</p>
<p>“Hello, Joe,” he said cordially, shaking Digg’s
hand. “Glad to see you.”</p>
<p>“Hello, Jack,” returned Digg, with equal cordiality.
“I’m glad to see you, but I never expected
it would be managing a bunch of bushers.”</p>
<p>“Oh, this is just a little matter of sport,” explained
Kennedy. “I’m out of the game, you
know. I’m a farmer now. But it happened that
they had a team here in this burg that was getting
walloped because of bad management, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span>
my friends in town drafted me into service. I
want you to come out with me to the farm to-night,
and we’ll have a little chat.”</p>
<p>They did have a chat that night after supper
on Kennedy’s veranda. In his bluff, open way,
which seldom caused offense or produced resentment,
the manager came to the point without
beating around the bush.</p>
<p>“Joe,” he said, “you ought to be drawing a
fancy salary to-day in the Big League, and it’s
your own fault that you ain’t.”</p>
<p>“Tell me something I don’t know,” returned
Digg, flushing.</p>
<p>“Booze has downed many a good man besides
yourself. Are you going to let it keep you
down?”</p>
<p>“I dunno. Seems like I’m such a thunderin’
fool that I can’t help it.”</p>
<p>“Rot! You can help it. Keep away from jag
hunters and you’ll be all right. As I said, I’m
out of Big League baseball for good, but I reckon
my judgment and my influence would count for
something with a number of managers who are
still in the game. If I should say to one of them
that I had a player who ought to be given a trial,
that man would get a show, even if he had been
canned after one fizzle. You get me?”</p>
<p>“I get you, Jack,” nodded Digg, a gleam of excitement
in his eyes. “If you can work me back<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span>
into the game you’ll do me a turn I’ll never forget.”</p>
<p>“But you know I wouldn’t try such a thing unless
I was satisfied that you had really turned
over a new leaf and meant to cut drink out for
good and all. You’ve got to show me, Joe.”</p>
<p>“It’s a go!” exclaimed Digg. “If you ever
catch me drinking anything stronger than water,
put the tag on me.”</p>
<p>In the first two games in which Digg played
third for the Deers he accepted eleven chances,
three of them of the most sensational order, without
an error, and batted .400.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII<br>
<small>THE MAN WHO DENIED HIMSELF</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">His pitching staff gave Kennedy the most
trouble. No matter how efficient a
team may be in other departments, it
cannot aspire to championship honors unless it
has a capable staff of twirlers. Curley, Sullivan,
and Heines, the three mound men for the Deers,
each and all had some weakness which was a
drawback.</p>
<p>Curley was erratic and never to be depended
on. One day he might pitch a splendid game, and
follow it on his next turn with wretched work.
Sullivan had a long swing which gave base runners
a big lead and made it almost impossible for
the best throwing catcher to keep them from stealing.
Nor could old Jack break the man of this
swing, for when he tried to do so Sullivan’s short-arm
delivery proved to be “pie” for the opposing
stickers. Heines had an arm that was good for
four or five innings, then broke like the most brittle
glass.</p>
<p>In one pinch, with Heines’ wing failing in the
fifth and the Deers having a lead of three runs,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span>
Kennedy actually went on to the mound himself.
Curley had pitched the day before, and old Jack
knew Sullivan’s delivery would hand the game
over to the enemy. Never in his life had Kennedy
attempted to pitch in anything resembling
a league game, and he was not the possessor of
as much as one little dinky curve. Yet, using
from start to finish an underhanded ball, delivered
from the knee and shot upward close across the
batter’s shoulder, he managed to pull the game
out of the fire by a margin of one lonesome tally.</p>
<p>When the Deering fans hailed him as a pitcher
Kennedy laughed them to scorn.</p>
<p>“That was the greatest case of horseshoes
ever,” he declared. “I couldn’t do it again
against a bunch of grammar-school kids. Heines
had the Stars dizzy by his speed, and when I
handed them up that subway rise they simply
broke their backs trying to hit it. If I’d begun
the game I wouldn’t have lasted an inning.”</p>
<p>All this time, of course, he was trying to get
hold of other pitchers, and, most of all, he desired
a left-hander to use against the Buccaneers,
who had five left-handed batters. Somehow he
got hold of a southpaw by the name of Billy
Winkle, who seemed to have speed, curves, and
control. His lack of head might have been balanced
by the good judgment of Coffin, who was
steadily and swiftly improving behind the bat,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span>
but Winkle lacked heart as well as head; and in
the breaks the uproar of the rooters, combined
with Billy’s fear of what was going to happen,
invariably cut the guy ropes.</p>
<p>About this time, still eagerly following the
career of the Blue Stockings, Kennedy was
startled one day when he opened his newspaper
and read some black headlines on the first page
which told of a railroad disaster in which the
Big League team was involved. In the smash
seven persons had been killed and twenty-one
more or less seriously injured. By rare good
fortune the special car containing the ball players
had shot down the embankment on its wheels and
remained in an upright position after plowing
deep into a boggy place at the roadside. It had
not been smashed, and, save for a shaking up and
a few bruises, not one of the men in that car had
been hurt.</p>
<p>Having read to this point, Kennedy drew a
deep breath of relief. A moment later, however,
he uttered a smothered exclamation of dismay,
for the next paragraph stated that one of the
players, Lefty Locke, had not been in the car and
was missing since the catastrophe. He was not
among those killed or injured, and all efforts to
find him had proved fruitless.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be—jiggered!” muttered Kennedy.
“Wasn’t in the car! Hasn’t been found! Well,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span>
what’s become of the boy? He was under suspension.
I’m afraid—”</p>
<p>He did not state what he was afraid of, but
the serious, troubled face which he wore, and his
eagerness for further details concerning the disaster,
indicated that anxiety over the fate of Lefty
remained in his mind.</p>
<p>One evening, two days later, shortly after the
arrival of the seven o’clock train in Deering,
Kennedy sought Landlord McLaughlin in the
Central House to consult with him regarding
some matter concerning the team. As old Jack
entered the office he saw a man at the desk in
the act of registering. There was something
strangely familiar about this man’s back, and
when the new arrival made inquiries for a room
with bath the sound of his voice caused the manager
of the Deers to step forward quickly to get
a look at his face.</p>
<p>As the clerk was fishing a big brass key from
a pigeonhole the guest leaned his left elbow on
the edge of the desk and swung part way round,
thus bringing himself face to face with Kennedy.
The latter gasped, and let out something like a
shout.</p>
<p>“Holy smoke!” he cried delightedly. “As I
live, it’s Lefty Locke! How are you, son?”</p>
<p>To Kennedy’s astonishment, no light of recognition
rose into the man’s eyes, and he made no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span>
move to shake the extended hand. Instead, he
surveyed the old manager in a puzzled, doubting
way, and slowly shook his head.</p>
<p>“I think you’ve made a mistake, pal,” he said.
“My name is Stranger—Robert Stranger.”</p>
<p>His mouth open, Kennedy slowly permitted his
hand to drop at his side. For something like
half a minute he stared steadily at the person
who had denied his acquaintance. Suddenly he
laughed.</p>
<p>“What’s the joke, Lefty?” he asked. “Put
me wise.”</p>
<p>“Really, there’s no joke,” was the grave assertion.
“You’ve got me wrong.”</p>
<p>“What’s that?” rasped old Jack. “Do you
mean to say you don’t recognize John Kennedy,
your old manager?”</p>
<p>Something like an annoyed frown crept into
the somber, handsome face of the younger man.</p>
<p>“I tell you,” he said a trifle warmly, “you’ve
got me wrong. To my knowledge I never heard
of you in all my life. You call me Locke, but my
name is Stranger. That’s my monacker—Robert
Stranger, Bob for short.”</p>
<p>Kennedy pinched himself. “I’m awake,” he
muttered. “There can’t be two men so much
alike in the whole world. Besides, he wrote his
name on the register with his left hand.”</p>
<p>Suddenly he began to feel a touch of anger.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span>
“See here,” he said harshly, “maybe your right
name ain’t Locke, but you can’t deny that it’s
Hazelton. You can’t deny that you’re a baseball
pitcher and that you were under my management
on the Blue Stockings.”</p>
<p>“The Blue Stockings?” said the other.
“They’re some. I hear plenty of baseball talk.
Can’t help it. But I never did take to the game
any. Perhaps it sounds like bunk to you, but I
never saw a real game in my life.”</p>
<p>“Help!” cried Kennedy. “I’m loony, or he
is!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV<br>
<small>PERPLEXED</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">The brazen, barefaced manner in which
Lefty Locke denied his identity and professed
that he had never even seen a game
of baseball was simply staggering. For old Jack
still refused to believe the man could be any one
save Locke himself.</p>
<p>What was Lefty’s object? Surely he ought to
know that he could not fool his old manager by
such a silly subterfuge and barefaced falsehood.
That he was trying to “put over” a puerile joke
did not appear possible, and certainly there was
no twinkle of mirth in his steady eyes, no smile
upon his sober face.</p>
<p>There was something behind the young pitcher’s
denial of his identity which Kennedy could
not understand, something which confused as well
as annoyed him. He was mustering his wits to
begin all over again when suddenly the new arrival
said:</p>
<p>“I trust you’ll excuse me, pal. I’ll have to
wash up before supper, which I see is in progress
now.” He glanced in the direction of the open<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span>
doors to the dining room and turned to the clerk.
“Can I have my room now?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Your luggage?” questioned the clerk significantly.</p>
<p>“I haven’t any. I’ll pay a day in advance.
How much?”</p>
<p>“Three dollars.”</p>
<p>Producing a roll of bills, the man peeled off a
two and a one and shoved them across the desk,
whereupon the clerk handed the key over to a
boy, who invited the guest to follow him.</p>
<p>They had not disappeared before Kennedy was
surveying the register, on which he found written:
“Robert Stranger, N. Y.”</p>
<p>“Well, wouldn’t that freeze you stiff!” he muttered.</p>
<p>He was still muttering to himself when Landlord
McLaughlin appeared.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter now, Jack?” inquired the
sporting proprietor of the Central House.
“You’re growlin’ like a dog with a sore ear.
Same old trouble ’bout pitchers, I s’pose?”</p>
<p>“I came in to consult with you about that southpaw,
Mercer, we’ve been trying to get holt of for
a week. I’ve got him to state his terms at last.”</p>
<p>“Good,” said McLaughlin.</p>
<p>“Bad,” said Kennedy. “He wants sixty a
week and board. We can’t afford it, Peter, in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span>
this little crossroads town. It’ll take us over our
salary limit, too.”</p>
<p>“We’ve got to have a fust-class pitcher at any
price. You said so yourself. Ain’t there no way
to hire him and keep under the salary limit?”</p>
<p>“Only one way. We can release one of our
other pitchers, along with the utility man we’re
keeping on the bench for emergencies. If a pinch
comes I can go into the game myself.”</p>
<p>“Your plan seems all right to me, and I’m for
it. We can get along without Heines. Three
pitchers is all we’ve had, anyhow, and they’re
enough. I say, nail Mercer. We’ve got to have
somebody quick. I just heard to-night that Bristol’s
signed a new twirler for the Buccaneers.
You see, Hank don’t propose to let you git the
bulge on him.”</p>
<p>“Did you hear the name of Bristol’s new
pitcher?”</p>
<p>“Yep, but it sorter slipped me. It was Eagan
or Elywin, or something like that. I’ll bet he’s
a ripper.”</p>
<p>“He’s probably a good man if Hank’s signed
him at this late day.”</p>
<p>“Well, you see where that puts us. You see
what we’re up against. We can’t expect to get
no Big League pitcher now.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know ’bout that,” returned Kennedy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span>
in a low tone, his eyes on a man who was descending
the stairs, and who turned at once toward the
dining room. “There goes one.”</p>
<p>“Hey? What?” spluttered the landlord.</p>
<p>“There goes one of the cleverest young portside
pitchers it has been my luck to see work in
a game in the last three years.”</p>
<p>“Hey?” spluttered Peter once more. “That
feller there? The one just goin’ into the dining
room?”</p>
<p>“That’s the man.”</p>
<p>“What you giving me, Jack?”</p>
<p>“Straight facts.”</p>
<p>“Why, what’s he doin’ round here?”</p>
<p>“I dunno. That’s what gets me.”</p>
<p>“Who is he?”</p>
<p>“He registered as Robert Stranger, but he
played under me with the Blue Stockings, using
the name of Tom Locke. He was generally called
Lefty.”</p>
<p>Landlord McLaughlin was in a sudden sweat
of excitement.</p>
<p>“Played under you? Then you know all about
him.”</p>
<p>“I reckoned I knew a lot about him,” said Kennedy;
“but in the last ten minutes I’ve sorter
changed my mind. Brennan, of the Hornets, got
him through a scout early in the season, but
Brennan sized him up wrong and let him go unconditionally.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span>
I’d been after him before that,
and I gave him a try-out. He was there with
the goods. When I quit, with the exception of
Grist, he was the most dependable pitcher the
team had. Since then something has happened to
him. I dunno what ’tis, but I could tell by the
papers that he was goin’ wrong. He was in that
railroad smash the other day. After the smash
he wasn’t to be found. Now he’s here.”</p>
<p>“Well, if you have a talk with him he’ll clear
things up, of course. He’ll explain it all.”</p>
<p>“I’ve had a talk with him. Instead of explaining,
he pretended he didn’t know me. Peter, he
denied that he was Lefty Locke and claimed his
name was Stranger, under which he has registered
here.”</p>
<p>“Jerusalem!” breathed McLaughlin. “That’s
mighty funny. How do you figger it?”</p>
<p>“I can’t get only one solution. It must be he
didn’t pull well with the new manager. I know
Carson, and he’s rough on a man he don’t cotton
to. Lefty was suspended shortly before that railroad
smash-up. When that came he improved his
opportunity to duck. Fool thing to do, but it
must be just what he done, Peter. Mebbe he
plans to lay low until Carson gets in a hole and
needs him desperate. Then, perhaps, he’ll wire
Carson and try to make terms. It don’t seem to
me that the Lefty Locke I knew would try any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span>
such jinks as that, but you never can tell what a
man will do.”</p>
<p>“By goudy!” said Peter. “If that’s what
he’s up to, mebbe we can get him to do some pitching
for us while he’s waitin’ to pull the thing off.
We’d make Bristol go some. Why don’t you try
it, Jack? You oughter be able to make a deal
with him, if anybody can.”</p>
<p>Kennedy shook his head. “I dunno,” he
growled, “I dunno ’bout that. Why, he just said
not only that he’d never played, but that he’d
never as much as seen a game. He’s got me
guessing. I’m afraid I can’t make a deal with
him.”</p>
<p>“Then <em>I’ll</em> try,” announced Landlord McLaughlin.
“Wait till he comes out from supper.
Leave it to me.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV<br>
<small>STRANGER GETS A JOB</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">When the new guest reappeared from
the dining room, having finished his
supper, Landlord McLaughlin met
him with an engaging manner.</p>
<p>“Welcome to our town,” said Peter. “We’re
always glad to see strangers drift in. Smoke?”</p>
<p>He tendered a cigar, which the other accepted
in a somewhat hesitating manner. Peter nipped
off the end of another cigar and struck a match,
which he held for the young man to light up before
lighting his own.</p>
<p>“It’s rather dry,” said the landlord.</p>
<p>“Is it?” said the one who called himself
Stranger, taking the cigar from his mouth and
looking at it doubtfully.</p>
<p>“I mean the weather. We ain’t had much rain
lately. Rather bad for crops, though it’s good
for baseball, and we’re interested in that round
here.”</p>
<p>The young man made no reply, but took another
uncertain whiff or two at the cigar. Suddenly
he said:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span></p>
<p>“I don’t believe I smoke. I don’t care for it,
anyhow. If you don’t mind, I won’t smoke this
one.”</p>
<p>To McLaughlin it seemed a bit odd that any
man shouldn’t know whether he smoked or not,
but he made no comment as the other tossed the
cigar into a cuspidor.</p>
<p>“How’s things the way you come from?” he
asked. “We always like to meet folks from the
big town. Say, won’t you come into the writing
room and set down for a little chat?”</p>
<p>“I don’t mind. I’m a bit tired, but it’s rather
early to turn in.”</p>
<p>Kennedy was watching them from behind a
newspaper in a distant corner. He saw them
enter the writing room, where the landlord placed
a chair for the guest in such a manner that the
latter’s back would be turned toward the door.
Almost immediately Jack rose, and, paper in
hand, walked quietly toward the writing room.</p>
<p>“What’s your business, if it ain’t too inquisitive
of me?” McLaughlin was saying as Kennedy
reached the door.</p>
<p>“I’m a—a diamond cutter,” was the somewhat
hesitating answer. “But I had to give it up on
account of my health. You can see it has taken
hold of me.”</p>
<p>Old Peter gave his husky-looking companion a
quizzical, sidelong glance.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span></p>
<p>“Mebbe so,” he half chuckled; “but I’d never
noticed it if you hadn’t spoke. What are you
planning to do?”</p>
<p>“A pill slinger suggested that I ought to get
out into the country and find a job somewhere in
the open air. I’m looking for work on a farm.”</p>
<p>“On a farm, hey?”</p>
<p>“Yes, the rural life for mine. Between us, pal,
I’ve hit it up some in my day. Even when I was
a boy I was a high flier.”</p>
<p>“You don’t say so!”</p>
<p>The landlord knew that Kennedy had taken a
seat in the room some distance behind them, but
he did not look round.</p>
<p>“I always was a wild chap,” the young man
went on. “When I was a boy I touched plenty
of high spots. Cards have tripped me, too.
Ever play poker?”</p>
<p>“Ho! Sometimes winters we have a little sociable
game of penny ante round here just to pass
away the time.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been an easy mark at the game, but I
like it. Can’t keep away. Every time I get a
roll I go searching for trouble. I’ve got a little
wad of long green right now that’s burning in my
pocket. I’d like to find three or four good sports
and get up a game.”</p>
<p>“I don’t cal’late you can kick up one this season
o’ the year,” said Peter. “’Sides that, we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span>
generally play among ourselves, not caring to
gamble in the reg’ler sense of the word. The
strait-laced people round here think that Satan’s
got a strangle hold on anybody that plays cards
for money.”</p>
<p>“I was brought up in a strait-laced family, pal.
My old man thought cards the tools of Satan. It
broke my mother’s heart when she found I was
playing penny ante with a bunch of youngsters.
Maybe that’s what finished her. But come, what’s
the use to talk of things like that?”</p>
<p>“Yep, what’s the use? Baseball’s the game in
the summertime hereabouts. We’ve got a pretty
hot team, I tell you. All we need now is a rattlin’
good pitcher.”</p>
<p>“The guff I hear and see in the newspapers
about baseball makes me tired, bo. Seems like
ninety per cent. of the population has gone bug-house
about the game.”</p>
<p>“Well, that don’t hurt ’em. Folks has got to
have something for recreation. All work and no
play is bad policy. Don’t s’pose you know where
we could get holt of a good pitcher, a left-hander?”</p>
<p>Locke seemed to meditate a moment as if seeking
to recall something, then in a queer way he
answered:</p>
<p>“One time I was mistook for a pitcher I happened
to look like. A gent blew up and called<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span>
me by that ball tosser’s name and asked me how
I was doing at it. Really, he didn’t believe me
when I told him I’d never pitched a ball in my
life and that I didn’t know a curve from a—from
a wedge of—restaurant pie.”</p>
<p>Old Peter cleared his throat with a rasping
sound and shoved round his chair till he could
glance at Kennedy, who made a quick, cautioning
gesture.</p>
<p>“Then if that’s the case,” floundered the landlord
helplessly, “I don’t s’pose you can help us
none. I’m sorry. I didn’t take you for a minister’s
son.”</p>
<p>“I am,” was the prompt assurance. “If I can’t
help you, perhaps you know where I can get a
job on a farm.”</p>
<p>“You say you’ve never done no farm work, but,
still, green hands ain’t to be sneezed at when
help is short.”</p>
<p>Kennedy rose and stepped forward.</p>
<p>“I’m a farmer,” he said, “and I need a man.”</p>
<p>The new arrival in Deering looked up with a
slight frown.</p>
<p>“You’re the man I met when I first came in,”
he said. “Well, if you need a laborer on your
farm perhaps we can talk business, bo.”</p>
<p>“You don’t look like a sick man to me.”</p>
<p>“My business has been too confining. You can
see it has affected me. I don’t like confinement.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span></p>
<p>“I’ll give you all the outdoor work you want,”
announced Jack, “and if you’re any good I’ll pay
you twenty-five dollars a month and keep.”</p>
<p>“That suits me. It’s a deal.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Kennedy; “I’ll be in town to-morrow
afternoon and take you out to my farm.
My name, as I told you before, is Kennedy.”</p>
<p>“And mine, as I told you before,” said the
other, “is Stranger.”</p>
<p>“‘Stranger’ goes,” returned Kennedy. “You
can call yourself anything you blame please. It’s
none of my business.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI<br>
<small>MIGHTY QUEER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Kennedy wanted an opportunity to
meditate quietly upon the peculiar behavior
of Lefty Locke, with the hope of
hitting on a reasonable solution of the problem.
For a problem it now appeared to the old manager.</p>
<p>“There’s just one thing I’m afraid of,” he said
to McLaughlin after Lefty had bidden them good
night and ascended to his room. “He didn’t expect
to run across me here in Deering. It must
have been a jolt to him, though he managed to hide
it mighty clever. Now, he may take a notion to
sneak sudden and give us the shake. ’Twouldn’t
surprise me if you woke up to-morrer to find your
late guest missing.”</p>
<p>“He’ll have some trouble gittin’ out of town
before the first train in the morning,” declared
Peter. “If you think it’s worth while, Jack, I’ll
have Skedge, the boy, set up all night right here
to see that he don’t sneak out.”</p>
<p>“Anything would be worth while if we could
only get him to pitch a few games for us.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span></p>
<p>But if Skedge remained awake and on guard
all night in the office of the Central House, he
wasted his time. Apparently the new guest had
no idea of slipping away, and when he appeared
at breakfast the next morning everything seemed
to indicate that he had passed a restful night.</p>
<p>Kennedy came in early for forenoon practice
at the ball park, but his suggestion that the new
farm hand should go out to the grounds with him
was not received favorably.</p>
<p>“If you don’t mind, pal,” said Lefty, “I’ll wait
for you right here at the hotel till you get ready
to take me out to your farm. Baseball doesn’t
interest me at all.”</p>
<p>Jack frowned a bit over that word “pal.” It
was not like Lefty Locke, and he had noticed that
at times since his appearance in Deering the fellow
spoke with a touch of slang that seemed
quite unnatural and different from his usual manner
of speech. There was in it, however, no trace
of the slang of the baseball field.</p>
<p>At noon Kennedy, coming back from the park,
decided to lunch with Locke at the hotel. During
the meal, however, he had little success in drawing
the man into conversation.</p>
<p>“Keep bottled up if you can,” thought old Jack
resentfully; “I’ll trip you yet.”</p>
<p>The Boobs came in on the two o’clock train, and
made straight for the field. Kennedy lingered at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span>
the post office to get his daily paper, and stopped
at the hotel on his way out to the park. McLaughlin
was waiting for him.</p>
<p>“Tell you what,” said the landlord, “this
southpaw o’ yourn don’t propose to earn his
twenty-five a month playin’ baseball. I’ve been
tryin’ to get him out to the game, but he won’t
budge.”</p>
<p>“Let me handle this case, Peter,” urged Kennedy,
spreading out his newspaper. “I don’t
quite get his drift yet, but I will. Take a look
at this! Here’s something more about the unexplained
disappearance of Lefty Locke. They
can’t seem to trace him. Some think he was killed
in the smash, but all save one of the dead were
identified, and the description of that one don’t
agree at all with the description of Locke. He was
a slim, slender, blue-eyed chap who looked like he
was in bad health. That accident, together with
the loss of Locke, seems to have knocked the
starch out of the Blue Stockings, for the Terriers
are eating ’em up in the series. The wise guys
think it’s going to be a cinch from now on for the
Specters to get away with the championship.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe that’ll interest our friend here,” suggested
McLaughlin. “He’s in the writin’ room,
watchin’ people on the street through the window.
That’s all he seems to do—jest set around and
watch folks.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span></p>
<p>Kennedy found Locke in the writing room. “I
say, Stranger,” he said, “here’s a daily paper
that may help you to pass away the time till I
get back after the game. Just look it over.”</p>
<p>He put the paper in the man’s hand with the
item regarding Locke and the Blue Stockings
folded out; but, after a nod and a casual glance
at that page, Lefty turned to another part of it.</p>
<p>Old Jack rejoined McLaughlin, growling, and
together they hastened to the field.</p>
<p>About two hours later Kennedy drove up in
front of the hotel with his rig, and asked for Mr.
Stranger. The latter seemed to be waiting, for
he came forth at once, the landlord following
closely.</p>
<p>“Well, Stranger,” said McLaughlin, as the
man got into the carriage, “I hope you take to
your job out on Kennedy’s farm.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, bo,” was the reply, as old Jack drove
away.</p>
<p>Kennedy had an excellent farm under a fine
state of cultivation. Besides the overseer, he kept
a stout, hulking boy, and at times, when needed,
extra hands were hired. All the buildings were
in perfect repair, and painted a clean white. The
house was a big, square, old-fashioned affair, with
fireplaces and a wide veranda. Kennedy’s sister,
a widow by the name of Malone, was the housekeeper.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span></p>
<p>“I’m going to let you take a day or two to get
the hang of things around the place,” said Kennedy,
as he showed Locke into a big, square corner
chamber with four windows, two of which
opened toward the east. “There’s no hurry
about your striking in to work, as it’s a bit slack
just now.”</p>
<p>The new man muttered his thanks, standing in
the middle of the room and looking around in a
manner which seemed to indicate slight surprise
over this sort of treatment, which, perhaps, was
scarcely what he had expected. Through the
open door, as he departed, Jack saw him seat himself
by one of the windows, and, with his head
resting on his hand, look out at the softly rustling
trees, the broad fields beyond, and the little lake
on which the afternoon sunshine was shimmering.
There was something pathetic and lonely in his
pose and manner, and to himself, as he descended
the stairs, Jack muttered:</p>
<p>“Queer—mighty queer!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII<br>
<small>DID HE REMEMBER?</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">After a hearty supper, at which the new
hand met Mrs. Malone, Kennedy invited
him out onto the veranda, where they sat
while Jack puffed at his pipe.</p>
<p>“You don’t smoke?” said Kennedy.</p>
<p>“I don’t think so,” was the reply.</p>
<p>“Drink?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I’ve been a wild one in my
day, pal. Hit the high places, and hit ’em hard.
Cards were my trouble. I was thinking I’d like
to find three or four good sports and get up a little
game.”</p>
<p>“Well, you won’t find them round here,”
growled old Jack, puffing savagely at his pipe.
“Nothing doing, Left—er—Stranger.”</p>
<p>The other betrayed no disappointment.</p>
<p>“We’ll just sit and talk things over comfortable
like,” said Kennedy, glancing at him sidewise.
“How’d you get the notion you wanted to go to
farming?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t my notion; it was the pill slinger’s.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span></p>
<p>“You don’t look like there’s been anything the
matter with your health.”</p>
<p>“I’m pale. That comes from confinement.”</p>
<p>“You’re brown as an Injun—or a baseball
player.”</p>
<p>Lefty rubbed his head. “I know what I’ve been
told,” he said, with a slight touch of resentment.</p>
<p>“Well, don’t swaller everything the doctors
hand out to you. How do you like my ranch?”</p>
<p>“It’s very comfortable. I like it here, only I
seem to miss something. It’s quiet.”</p>
<p>“That’s the way I feel. You see, when a man
has been in the hot of Big League baseball year
after year, it’s a big change to settle down this
fashion. But we all have to take up something
after we’ve had our day at the game. If I’d ever
married it might ’a’ seemed different.”</p>
<p>“You never married?”</p>
<p>“No,” said old Jack, a trifle sadly; “slipped
up on that play. Made an error, and another fellow
fanned me out. You know, it’s mighty easy
to lose in a game like that if you don’t keep on
your toes all the time. I don’t often talk about
it, but I don’t mind telling you how it was.”</p>
<p>Lefty said nothing, and the old manager continued:</p>
<p>“She was the only dame I ever got really
smashed on, a little, dark-eyed Irish girl by the
name of Madge. Met her after a game in which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span>
I was pretty near the whole show, having made
two homers, a three-bagger, and a single. She
was just bubbling over with enthusiasm, and when
she turned them eyes of hern on me, and handed
me a smile with her teeth shining like polished
chinyware, I just felt that it was all up with me.
I was like a busher in his first Big League game,
all cold and hot and shaky and queer clean down
to my toes. I knew in a jiffy that she was the
one for me.</p>
<p>“Well, there ain’t no need to string the story
out,” he went on. “I rushed her for all I was
worth when the team was playin’ to home.
Things went along swimmin’, and we had it arranged
somehow before I ever knowed just how
it come round that we would play the big game
together on the same team. That is, we was going
to get spliced some time, and I didn’t care how
soon the job was done. She had another guy that
was rushing her, too, before I hove in on the horizon;
but I had his groove, and he was fanning
every time he stepped up to the plate.</p>
<p>“Now, listen to me, and hear how the whole
game went wrong in the ninth inning. My sister
Kitty comes on to see me unexpected, and, of
course, I spreads myself to give her a good time.
Madge didn’t know nothing ’bout it, and she sees
me blowin’ Kit off to cabs and theaters and feeds,
and a-kissin’ her good-by when I had to send her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span>
home one night sudden on account of an unexpected
turn. What did that little hot-headed,
black-eyed girl do? She just writ me a red-hot
letter, tellin’ me what she thought of a deceivin’,
heart-breakin’, double-dyed wretch like I was, and
announcin’ that she was leavin’ town. She didn’t
leave no address, either. At first I took it as a
kind of joke, thinkin’ I could straighten things out
all right with Madge. But next thing I heard,
within a week, she was hooked to the other guy,
and I was down and out in the series.</p>
<p>“I ain’t never struck one like Madge since, and
I ain’t likely to; so, you see, here I am—an old
bach. It’s tough on a man when a girl throws him
that fashion, with no chance to explain; but I’ve
always tried to console myself by sayin’ that one
who’d do such a thing would likely keep a guy in
hot water the most of the time when she got him.
It’s poor consolation, but it’s all I’ve got.”</p>
<p>Lefty was frowning as he gazed through the
faint purple shadows toward the little lake, on
which the afterglow of the sunset was reflected,
and he stirred uneasily, passing a hand across his
forehead. After some moments of silence, he
said:</p>
<p>“Seems to me I’ve heard of a similar case.”</p>
<p>“I s’pose there’s lot of similar cases,” replied
Kennedy, giving a pull at his pipe, which had gone
out during the narration. “I was young, and it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span>
broke me up bad. I played so rotten that my
manager got sore, and put me on the bench. I
took to hittin’ the bottle, too. Drank altogether
too much until a friend gave me a talking to and
showed me what a dumb fool I was. Then I tried
to forget it and get back into form again. I succeeded,
too, and I’ve stuck to baseball steady, saving
my dollars, with the idea of having something
to live on when my days at the game was finished.
I am out of it now, though I’m managin’ this little
Deering team. Kinder got pulled into that. I
wouldn’t if it hadn’t been for Hank Bristol, who’s
managin’ the Buccaneers. He sorter rubbed me
the wrong way, and it’s my object now to beat him
out if there’s any way to do it. To beat him, I’ve
got to have another A-one pitcher, and I need a
left-hander.” Lefty was silent.</p>
<p>“I know the very man I’d like to have,” Kennedy
went on musingly. “He come out of the
bush this year. Brennan, of the Hornets, had him
in the South to start with; but Brennan also had
another promisin’ young slabman by the name of
Bert Elgin. It seems that the left-hander and
Elgin had some sort of a mix-up at college, and
they didn’t cotton to each other a great deal. Elgin
put up some sort of a dirty job on the other chap,
and made him look like a quitter and a useless
pup. Brennan was fooled, and dropped him.</p>
<p>“I’d been after him before that, and he comes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span>
to me after being handed the can by Brennan. I
sent him out into the bush with a team from which
I could pull him in any time I wanted to, and he
made good out there. My pitchers started cold,
and didn’t get into the game just right, so I sent
out a hurry call for the southpaw, and he joined the
team just in time to pitch in our first game against
the Hornets. I took a chance on spoiling him by
shovin’ him into that game. Had to do it, you
know, though I hated to. The proper way to
break in a pitcher is to work him against a weak
team, and give him confidence by a good chance to
pull off a win to start with. It was hard on him,
rammin’ him into that game against the Hornets,
but he come through with flying colors, and he
pitched against Bert Elgin, too.</p>
<p>“There was a reporter named Stillman who had
it in his noddle that Elgin was responsible for
what my left-hander got from Brennan, and he
chased the thing down and got the proof, which he
hands out to Brennan hisself. That was Mr. Elgin’s
finish in Big League company. Brennan
sent him down into class C company, but he
didn’t last even there. Nobody seemed to have
much use for him, and I dunno where he’s faded
to.</p>
<p>“Now,” continued old Jack, squaring round until
he could watch his companion without turning
his head, “if I just had that left-handed man of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span>
mine for about two weeks I’d bury the Buccaneers.
We beat the Boobs to-day, but they’re the weakest
bunch in this league. After the game I heard that
the Bucks had beat the Stars, and gone into first
place by a small margin. We play Bristol’s team
in Hatfield to-morrow. I’ve figgered the percentage
out to-night, and if we could take a fall out of
’em we’d be tied with ’em to-morrow night.”</p>
<p>“I presume that’s all very interesting to you,”
said Lefty, unmoved; “but, having never cared in
the slightest for baseball, you’ll pardon me if I
don’t enthuse.”</p>
<p>Kennedy made a queer sound in his throat.
“Look a’ here,” he snapped, “was you ever in
a railroad smash-up?”</p>
<p>“Never,” was the slow answer, coming after a
moment or two of breathless silence.</p>
<p>Old Jack dropped his pipe, and groped for it.</p>
<p>“Why do you ask?” questioned the other.</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing—nothing,” mumbled Kennedy.
“I’m going to turn in pretty soon. You can go
to bed any time you want to. We get up ruther
early here on the farm.”</p>
<p>“Think I’ll turn in now,” said the other, rising.</p>
<p>In his chamber, half an hour later, having made
sure that Lefty had really gone to bed, Kennedy
paced up and down a while, his forehead corrugated
by a deep frown.</p>
<p>“It gets me!” he finally exclaimed, beginning to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span>
undress. “I can’t quite make up my mind
whether he’s faking or really don’t remember. If
that last is the case, he ought to have treatment by
a doctor.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII<br>
<small>A NEW PITCHER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Although there was an early breakfast
on Kennedy’s farm, when old Jack arose
his sister surprised him by stating that
the new man had been up and wandering about
the place for an hour or more.</p>
<p>“I wonder if he didn’t sleep well?” said Kennedy.</p>
<p>“I asked him,” returned Mrs. Malone, “and he
said he slept like a log. He’s a fine-looking fellow,
Jack, but he ain’t no farmer. If you took
him for one you got bunkoed.”</p>
<p>Kennedy gave her a laughing, knowing wink.
“Leave it to me, Kit,” he said. “I know my
business, whether I’m hirin’ farm hands or ball
players.”</p>
<p>“I’m thinking you’d be much more successful
picking the latter,” she replied. “You may call
yourself a farmer, but it’s baseball that’s still got
the hook on ye.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe you’re right, Kitty,” he agreed.
“Mebbe that’s why I decided to taper off with this
bush league bunch. Perhaps I’m like a man that’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span>
been drinking hard and finds he’s got to quit, but
it’ll kill him if he stops all to once. When the
baseball bug gets into a man’s blood for fair he
never is quite cured. It’s a disease, my girl.”</p>
<p>“If you’d had a square deal you’d be at it
now.”</p>
<p>“Don’t let that worry you. I knew it was coming
some time. Where’s this man of mine?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t wonder if you found him out viewin’
the scenery. There’s something sort of sad and
lonesome about him. He acts like he’s lost his last
friend on earth. But he’s a handsome feller,
Jack.”</p>
<p>“Now, Kitty, don’t be sentimental. I thought
you was done with the men?”</p>
<p>“So I am,” she retorted, flushing almost like a
girl. “Stop your joshing. Me day is over, but
I can tell the kind that git the girls as well as I
ever could. Breakfast will be ready in less than
five minutes.”</p>
<p>Laughing, Kennedy went out to search for
Locke, whom he found on the veranda. Lefty
rose at once when Jack appeared.</p>
<p>“Good morning,” he said. “You told me to
look around, and I’ve been doing so.”</p>
<p>“Right-o! You’re an early bird, all right.
It’s an appetite you should have for breakfast.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t any working clothes,” said the other.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span>
“I’ve been trying to think what became of my outfit.
Can’t seem to remember.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got old clothes
enough, and they’ll do when you want ’em, which
won’t be to-day. Come in to breakfast.”</p>
<p>At the table Lefty was silent, but, whatever
else could be said of him, his appetite was healthy
enough. He seemed wholly unaware of the occasional
glances of interest from the blue eyes of
Mrs. Kitty Malone. In every movement he proclaimed
himself a person of refinement, and it was
only in occasional lapses of speech when he
seemed almost trying to remember something, or
repeating a lesson that had been learned, that
there was the slightest suggestion of anything different.</p>
<p>After breakfast Kennedy gave his foreman some
instructions, and later he found Locke waiting for
him. Old Jack appeared with a soiled baseball
and a glove.</p>
<p>“I may have to get into the game myself to-day,”
he said cheerfully, “and I’m a bit out of
practice. As long as you’re not going to work
until to-morrow, mebbe you’d throw me a few?”</p>
<p>Lefty frowned, but did not refuse.</p>
<p>“Pull off your coat,” directed the old manager,
as he paced off and marked the regular pitching
distance in the yard. “Here’s a flat stone for you
to put ’em over. I’ll be the catcher.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span></p>
<p>If he had prepared a trap, the other walked into
it without hesitation. Taking his place on the
mark indicated, he caught the ball which Jack
tossed him, and squared away.</p>
<p>“Take it easy at first,” suggested Kennedy, in
full remembrance of the smoking speed with which
Lefty Locke had dazzled the best batters in the
Big League. “As long as you’re green, you’ll
hurt your whip if you start in by wallopin’ ’em.”</p>
<p>Lefty complied to the letter, and the old manager’s
eyes glittered with the secret triumph he
felt as the young man began putting the ball over
with perfect control and apparently without effort.
Gradually Kennedy urged him to speed up, and the
change made no difference. Wherever Jack held
his hands behind that flat rock—high, low, behind
the inside or the outside corner—Lefty Locke
winged the ball straight into them, so that it was
scarcely necessary to make the slightest movement
to catch it.</p>
<p>“Say,” cried Kennedy suddenly, “I thought
you didn’t know anything about this business?”</p>
<p>“I don’t,” was the instant declaration. “Don’t
think I ever handled a baseball before in all my
life.” But there was a strange flush in his face
and a peculiar light of aroused interest in his eyes,
all of which the former Blue Stockings’ manager
observed with unspeakable gratification.</p>
<p>“Well, if you’re a greenhorn, certainly you’re a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span>
wonder,” said Kennedy, still careful to follow the
other’s lead. “Say, throw me a drop.”</p>
<p>Locke shook his head. “I don’t know how.”</p>
<p>“Easiest thing you ever tried. Here, I’ll show
you.”</p>
<p>He jogged forward, took the ball, and demonstrated
how it should be held and in what manner
it should be released with the proper whirling
motion to make it drop.</p>
<p>“Now try it that way,” he said, returning to
his position.</p>
<p>Three times Lefty threw the ball without the
slightest indication of a drop, but with the fourth
throw, into which he put a bit more speed, the
sphere, coming breast-high, took a sudden shoot
toward the ground just before reaching the stone
which served for a plate. Kennedy, scooping it
from the turf, whooped.</p>
<p>“That’s it!” he shouted. “Great smoke!
That was a peach! It would have had Logie, of
the Specters, breakin’ his back.”</p>
<p>For the first time since his arrival in Deering,
something like a faint smile flitted across the
young man’s face.</p>
<p>“Queer,” he said. “I didn’t know I could do
that. Pitching can’t be so difficult to learn.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t for some men,” assured Kennedy.
“Give me another.”</p>
<p>He snapped the ball wide and high to Locke, who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span>
carelessly thrust up his right hand, stopped it,
and permitted it to drop into his left, a movement
so familiar to old Jack that he nearly whooped
again.</p>
<p>“Give me one just like the last,” invited Kennedy,
“and burn it. Let it come smoking.”</p>
<p>It was like the last, and with only his small
fielder’s glove to aid him Kennedy lost it.</p>
<p>“Oh, some speed, son—some speed!” he rejoiced.
“The left-hander I told you about last
night used to have a duplicate of Walter Johnson’s
hook curve, only it took the opposite twist toward
the inside corner for a right-hand batter, and so
was a heap worse to hit. Let me show you how he
threw it, if I can remember.”</p>
<p>Again he demonstrated, and again Locke apparently
tried to follow directions. This time he
threw the hook with the first effort, and old Jack
bit his tongue to hold himself in check.</p>
<p>“That’s it!” he cried. “Why, I could make a
pitcher out of you—I sure could! And there’s
more money in it than working on a farm. It’s
good, healthy business, too. Just what your
doctor’d ordered if he’d knowed you could do it.”</p>
<p>“How could he know, if I didn’t know myself?”
was the good-natured question, all the somberness
seeming gone from Locke’s face—temporarily at
least. In every movement he was now a pitcher,
the same young wonder who had made such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span>
record under Kennedy with the Blue Stockings;
the same jovial-appearing, resolute, reliable boxman
who had made a host of friends and admirers,
and had come to be feared and respected by opposing
batsmen.</p>
<p>“You throw ’em any way you’re a mind to now,
and let ’em come,” said Kennedy. “You’re giving
me some practice, all right.”</p>
<p>There was life, ginger, fire, and marvelous control
in every delivery. The whistlers that left
Locke’s fingers made old Jack set his teeth and
grin painfully as, one after another, they nearly
lifted him off his feet. In a few moments the old
manager, unprotected by a big mitt, found that he
was getting more than enough.</p>
<p>“That will do!” he shouted, dropping the ball,
and blowing on his smarting right hand. “Perhaps
you never saw a ball game, but, believe me,
you can pitch—and I know pitchers.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX<br>
<small>AT THE FIELD</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">When Manager Kennedy rode into
town to take the ten-ten train for
Hatfield with his players, Mr. Robert
Stranger came with him. Old Jack stopped at
the Central House, and found Landlord McLaughlin
on the point of leaving for the station.</p>
<p>“Howdy, Jack,” said Peter. “I see you’ve
got your new farm hand with ye.”</p>
<p>“’Sh!” breathed Kennedy. “I’ve induced him
to go over with us to see the game, and I’m takin’
along an extra suit of mine—one I wore with the
Blue Stockings, with the letters cut off.”</p>
<p>“You don’t mean to say—” gasped Peter.</p>
<p>“I don’t mean to say anything now.”</p>
<p>“But he ain’t owned up?”</p>
<p>“Not a word. It’s the queerest thing I ever
bumped against—it sure is. We’ve got to catch
that train, so let’s be movin’. On the way over
I’ll tell you about it.”</p>
<p>Locke accompanied them to the station, where
Kilgore was waiting with his teammates. Some
eighteen or twenty Deering fans who could get<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span>
away had purchased round-trip tickets, while at
least fifty more were on hand to give the Deers a
send-off. Kennedy bought tickets, after which
he introduced Locke to the players who gathered
around them.</p>
<p>“Shake hands with Bob Stranger, boys,” he
said, calling one after another by name. “He’s a
friend of mine going along with us to-day.”</p>
<p>The locomotive was whistling in the distance
when Captain Kilgore pulled at Kennedy’s sleeve,
and whispered, his back toward Locke:</p>
<p>“Say, Jack, who is this guy?”</p>
<p>The manager made a warning gesture. “Not
a word,” he cautioned. “It’s a secret. He’s a
southpaw pitcher, and if necessary I may use him
in the game against the Bucks to-day.”</p>
<p>Toots Kilgore grinned. “Take it from me, it’s
likely to be necessary,” he said. “It’s going to
be <em>the</em> game. They’ll fight us like blazes on their
own field, and they’ve got a new man to put against
us. Curley won’t last; they can steal right and
left on Reddy Sullivan, and Heines’ whip is broke.
You better start your new man on the hill.”</p>
<p>“Leave that to me,” returned old Jack reprovingly,
“and keep your face closed about him. I’ll
tell the boys anything they ought to know. Don’t
even hint to him that you think he’s a pitcher.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I see!” said Kilgore. “You’re planning
to spring a surprise. Maybe he’s some real gun in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span>
the game. Maybe his name ain’t Stranger at
all.”</p>
<p>“That’s the name he goes by—now,” said the
manager of the Deers, as the train roared up to the
station and stopped.</p>
<p>The crowd cheered them as they got aboard,
carrying grips, bat bags, and other paraphernalia.</p>
<p>“Git this game, Jack—you’ve got to git it!”
cried a big man on the platform. “We need it,
and we depend on you.”</p>
<p>Kennedy’s only reply was a nod, which brought
another cheer from the crowd, who continued to
make a demonstration until the train pulled out.</p>
<p>Old Jack saw to it that Lefty Locke was seated
in the midst of the players, where he remained
during the journey to Hatfield, listening with a
strange sort of interest to their chatter about the
game and the standing of the teams, which to them
seemed quite as vital as a Big League race. At
times Locke evinced more than usual interest as
some chance phrase fell on his ear with a familiar
ring, and for the time being the shadow in his eyes
was dispelled. Although he had little to say, his
manner was that of one who again found himself
with his own people, and felt once more the vital
throb and thrill of life which is experienced daily
by the man who has found the vocation for which
he is best adapted.</p>
<p>Kennedy missed none of this, although he took<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span>
pains not to give Locke the impression that he was
being watched.</p>
<p>“Got him going,” mused the old manager, with
deep satisfaction. “He tried to duck the game,
but the germ is in his blood, and he can’t keep
away from it. If I need him, I’ll have him pitching
before the game is finished this afternoon.”</p>
<p>Hatfield was a thriving, prosperous place—nearly
a young city—in rather strong contrast
to the quiet, almost sleepy town of Deering. It
seemed presumptuous that a somnolent village like
Deering should presume to the championship in
a bush league represented by Hatfield, for surely
the latter had the advantage, in the way of backing,
population, attendance, and general resources.</p>
<p>From the station, Kennedy led his men to
Tower’s Hotel, which gave them special rates,
and furnished the most satisfactory table.</p>
<p>An hour’s rest followed dinner; then, as two
o’clock approached, the Deers gathered up their
trappings, and set forth for the park, toward which
the early fans were already turning their faces.</p>
<p>Reaching the field, they entered a dressing room,
and began stripping down to don their playing
togs. Still with them, Lefty watched and listened
after the manner of one to which all this seemed
familiar, yet as an outsider.</p>
<p>“There’s an extra suit,” said Kennedy, placing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span>
his grip on a shelf, and being sure that Locke
saw and heard. “Everything a man needs, down
to shoes. Perhaps it won’t be used to-day, but if
anyone should happen to want it, it can be found
right there.”</p>
<p>Kilgore wondered why old Jack’s new pitcher
did not get into that suit at once; but, having no
small respect for the manager’s cleverness, and
thinking he knew the sort of game he was playing,
the captain of the Deers made no remark.</p>
<p>“There’s no rules here to prevent you from sitting
on the bench with us, Stranger,” explained
the manager, as the players were ready to leave
for the field. “It will give you a chance to watch
the game from close range.”</p>
<p>The Deers followed their manager and captain
to the field. The Buccaneers had not yet appeared,
so the visitors had everything to themselves.</p>
<p>They began practice by “fungo” batting and
the catching of liners and flies, cheered only by the
little group of Deering fans who had followed them
and were waiting to give them encouragement.
Those cheers were not the only sounds to greet
them, some of the more rabid local partisans
shamelessly hissing or groaning. For out in the
bush baseball rivalry is almost always intense,
and there is little of the fair-minded impartiality
among the spectators which sometimes, in a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span>
place like New York, leads the home crowd to
applaud famous players of opposing nines.</p>
<p>In less than ten minutes the Buccaneers came
forth with a dash, Hank Bristol at their head.
In appearance they justified their name, for their
blue suits were almost black, and the dash of crimson
upon their caps, together with their crimson
stockings, gave them a somber, awesome appearance,
which was heightened by the husky build of
almost every man, and the mocking savageness of
their faces. If ever a baseball nine was calculated
to win from the awe it would inspire in the breasts
of opponents, the Bucks were that organization.</p>
<p>With an assumption of cordiality, Hank Bristol
shook hands with Jack Kennedy.</p>
<p>“Sorry for you, old hoss,” he grinned, “but
you should have known better than to let ’em
coax you into the game again.”</p>
<p>“Save your sympathy till I need it, Hank,”
returned the manager of the Deers. “You’re old
enough and wise enough to know one never can tell
what’s going to happen in this game.”</p>
<p>“I know what’s going to happen to-day. We’re
going to put another nail in your coffin. You’re
a dead one, Jack, but you don’t know it. Why,
you don’t worry us at all. We’re not even going
to start our new pitcher against you, and I don’t
believe we’ll need him. Jewett ought to find you
easy picking.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span></p>
<p>“Where’s your new man?” asked Kennedy.</p>
<p>“There he goes, walking by your bench now,”
answered Bristol, pointing.</p>
<p>At this moment a ball, thrown from the field,
went bounding past them into the bench of the
visitors, where Lefty Locke sat. Immediately he
secured it, and stepped forth to throw it to the
signaling batter.</p>
<p>The Buccaneers’ new pitcher stopped short, and
stared in astonishment at Lefty, who did not seem
to observe him.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be hanged!” exclaimed the surprised
man, his eyes fastened on Locke. “It’s you, is it?
You didn’t last so long in big company, did you?”
He finished with a sneering laugh full of unspeakable
satisfaction and joy.</p>
<p>Lefty looked him over blankly. “Speaking to
me?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Who did you think I was speaking to?” retorted
the other as he passed on, still laughing.</p>
<p>Frowning, Locke stared after him.</p>
<p>“Who’s that man?” he asked, a few seconds
later, as old Jack came to the bench.</p>
<p>“That man?” repeated Kennedy. “He’s the
Buccaneers’ new pitcher. His name is Bert Elgin.”</p>
<p>“Queer,” said Lefty. “He seemed to have an
idea he knew me, but I’ve never seen him before.”</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX<br>
<small>BASEBALL LUCK</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">The words were uttered in such a sincere
manner that they came near dispelling
Kennedy’s last doubt. “He’d be
a fool to try to keep up a bluff like that,” thought
the manager, “and Lefty Locke never was no
fool.”</p>
<p>Aloud he said: “That’s the cub I was tellin’
you ’bout who put up a job on my southpaw pitcher
when he was gettin’ a try-out with the Hornets.
He can pitch, but he’s got a yaller streak, and he’s
about as mean as dirt.”</p>
<p>“Will he pitch to-day?” asked Lefty.</p>
<p>“Dunno. Perhaps so. Bristol won’t use him
’less he has to. I see he’s goin’ to warm up with
the others. Keep your eye on him.</p>
<p>“Somethin’s gone wrong with the man,” he muttered,
as he turned away. “It’s no bluff. His
noddle is twisted.”</p>
<p>From the bench, Locke watched the two teams
take turns at practice, but for the most part his interest
seemed to center in the opposing pitchers,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span>
who were warming up. Having been told all
about the crippled condition of the Deers’ staff,
he realized the probable advantage of the home
team with a new man ready to jump on to the slab
if needed—a man considered by Bristol a star of
the first magnitude.</p>
<p>The critical nature of this game turned out a
crowd which filled the bleachers and packed the
stands—a crowd bubbling with enthusiasm for the
locals, who could obtain an added grip on first
position by taking this contest.</p>
<p>And more than nine-tenths of the assemblage
seemed to believe such a result a foregone conclusion.</p>
<p>In warming up, Elgin attracted the most attention,
for nearly everyone had heard of Bristol’s
new man. Knowing the eyes of the crowd were
upon him, he posed vainly, and finished limbering
his flinger by whipping three or four speedy ones
to the catcher which caused many witnesses to
gasp.</p>
<p>The time for the game to start came at last, and
the clang of a bell called the visitors to their bench,
while the locals took the field. Then one of the
umpires, with a megaphone, announced:</p>
<p>“Battrees to-day: For Deering, Curley and
Coffin. For Hatfield, Jewett and Yapp.”</p>
<p>At this there was a murmur from those who had
wished to see the new man pitch. Elgin, hearing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span>
this murmur and understanding, laughed to himself.</p>
<p>Chick Collins, the Deers’ right fielder, was the
first man to face Jewett, and, as Collins had the
reputation of being a man who “waited it out”
and made a pitcher put them over, Jewett started
in by cutting the pan with the first ball delivered.</p>
<p>To his surprise, Chick did not take one; instead,
he met that straight ball on the trade-mark, and
cracked it safely into right, which caused the little
bunch of Deering fans to give a howl of joy.</p>
<p>“That’s the stuff!” sounded the voice of Peter
McLaughlin. “He won’t last an inning at that
rate. Go to him, Truly!”</p>
<p>Hen Truly, familiarly known as “Yours Truly,”
followed Collins to the plate, fully instructed by
Kennedy. Jewett, a bit nervous, threw three
times to first to hold the runner close. Then he
wasted two while Truly waited and grinned. Having
put the twirler in a hole the batter signaled to
Collins that he would bunt the next ball pitched,
and the runner was off for second with the swing
of Jewett’s arm.</p>
<p>Truly dropped a bunt in front of the plate, and
stretched himself for first. Jewett fell over himself
trying to field the ball, and the attempted sacrifice
was turned into a scratch hit when his throw
reached first a second too late.</p>
<p>“Where’s your new pitcher?” cried Landlord<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span>
McLaughlin. “You better put him in right
away.”</p>
<p>Bristol remained apparently unmoved upon the
bench; but Jewett, glancing toward his manager,
knew that he was on the verge of getting the hook.</p>
<p>Joe Digg was the next hitter—Digg, the formidable,
who still had the highest batting average
among the visitors. Jewett feared Digg; yet to
pass him now would fill the corners, with no one
down, and Hallett, a man almost as dangerous,
followed. In this dilemma, wabbling in the effort
to get his pins under him, the Buccaneer flinger
sought to coax Digg into reaching.</p>
<p>On the first ball pitched, Truly, seeming to forget
that second was occupied, shot down the line.
Instantly Yapp winged the ball to first, and even
as he did so Collins stretched himself for third.
Seeing this, the first baseman attempted to cut
Collins off by a throw across, and Truly went on to
second. By a fine slide, Collins shot under the
third baseman, who made a sweeping, ineffectual
jab at him, and then threw to second to stop the
crafty Truly. Truly was there ahead of the ball,
and had the baseman not been alive to the situation,
which led him to whip the sphere to the plate
without an instant’s delay, Collins would have
tried to score. As it was, he got back to third a
second ahead of the ball, and the delayed double
steal was a complete success. With second and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span>
third occupied, a long single in the right quarter
would give the visitors a start of two runs.</p>
<p>Out of the corner of his mouth, Hank Bristol
spoke to Bert Elgin.</p>
<p>“Take Putnam,” he said, “and go down into a
corner, and keep your arm warm. I may want you
any minute.”</p>
<p>Jewett saw the new pitcher and the change
catcher leave the bench, and knew what it meant.
Desperate, he whipped over a jumper to Digg,
who attempted to lace it out, and simply hoisted a
short fly to second.</p>
<p>Leaving the bench, Kennedy took Tom Boyd’s
place on the coaching line, Boyd being the batter
who followed Hallett.</p>
<p>“Got ’em going!” grinned old Jack. “Hit it
a mile, Hallett! Give ’em a chance to use their
new wizard right away.” While apparently encouraging
Hallett to smash the ball, he gave the
signal for the squeeze play, which doubtless would
be unexpected at this moment, when everything
seemed to indicate the immediate downfall of the
unsteady pitcher.</p>
<p>Jewett handed up another. With the first hint
of his movement Collins started like a shot for
the plate. Hallett lifted his bat, held it slack, and
bunted. Instead of falling to the ground, the ball
rebounded in a little fly, which was caught by
Jewett without moving from his tracks.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span></p>
<p>Collins, warned by a shout, tried to stop. He
saw Jewett with the ball, and realized what had
happened. The pitcher, elated, laughed at him;
and the sphere was tossed to third for a double
play, which put an abrupt end to the fine start the
Deers had promised to make. It also let Jewett
out of a bad hole through a streak of great luck.</p>
<p>Nevertheless it was probable Bristol would use
the new man with the coming inning; and far out
in a corner of the field Elgin, working easily with
the change catcher, awaited the call.</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI<br>
<small>PITCHERS’ WATERLOO</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Although Bristol said nothing to
Jewett, it was sheer luck which kept the
pitcher from receiving a call-down by
his manager. It was also luck, combined with
poor work on the part of Curley, that gave Jewett
an opportunity to reclaim himself in the second
inning; for the locals got after Curley with such
effect that two runs had been secured through hits
and errors, with only one man down, when Kennedy
pulled the twirler from the mound, and sent
Sullivan out. On Sullivan’s long swing another
run came in before the home team was retired.
With this comfortable lead of three tallies, Bristol
decided to save his new man for a tight pinch
or some other game.</p>
<p>“It’s uphill work now, boys,” said Kennedy to
his players; “but a bunch that can’t fight an uphill
game is no good. Get after that easy mark,
and force Bristol to show us what he’s got out
there in the offing. Make him use his new colt.”</p>
<p>Already the wise old war horse had sent Heines
out to keep his flipper oiled, fearing that Sullivan<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span>
would prove meat for the Bucks. Despite Jack’s
urging, which possibly made the youngsters of his
team a bit too eager, Jewett got away with it in the
first of the second, only one man threatening from
third before the side was retired without cutting
down that lead of three.</p>
<p>“Now,” said Spider Hogan, field captain of the
Buccaneers, “it’s up to us to put the wood to Sullivan.
That old soup bone of his can’t keep this
bunch in check. Every man that gets on first
steals on his swing. Don’t forget.”</p>
<p>Kennedy also had his fears for Sullivan’s
“soup bone.” He spoke to Lefty Locke, who was
watching the progress of the struggle with the
keenest interest.</p>
<p>“Reddy can’t hold ’em,” he said; “nor Heines,
either. If I had that left-handed youngster of mine
to put in here now the boys would support him, and
perhaps they’d tie this thing up sudden before
Bristol got cagy and shoved his new man on to the
slab. You’re left-handed, and you’ve found out
that you can handle a baseball.”</p>
<p>“You don’t mean—” muttered Locke.</p>
<p>“You know where that grip of mine is containing
an old suit. There’s everything in it but a
left-handed glove, and Collins is left-handed.
He’d let you have his fielder’s glove. He could
get along without it out in right.”</p>
<p>“You don’t mean—” repeated Lefty.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span></p>
<p>“I can’t tell you any plainer what I mean.
Which had you rather do, pitch baseball for me at
fifty a week and keeps, or work on a farm at
twenty-five a month?”</p>
<p>“If I thought—” Locke still hesitated.</p>
<p>“Let me do the thinking for you,” urged Kennedy.
“Get into that suit, and watch your chance
to take Heines’ place warmin’ up the minute I
have to use him. You can reach the dressing room
by going round this side of the field.”</p>
<p>“I’ll try it,” said Lefty, rising; “but don’t
blame me—”</p>
<p>“There won’t be any kicks comin’,” promised
Kennedy, elated. “I’m taking the chance. You
haven’t made any profession of being a ball
tosser. Go to it.”</p>
<p>Thus encouraged, while Sullivan was trying to
hold the Buccaneers in check, and getting away
with the inning by allowing them only one run,
Locke sauntered to the dressing room, found Kennedy’s
old uniform, and got into it. As he passed
Heines, the little pitcher gave him a look, and
called:</p>
<p>“It’s about time you got into gear if Jack’s going
to use you to-day. He’s worked the rest of
us stiff, and the Bucks have grabbed the game already.”</p>
<p>Lefty made no retort. Having prepared himself
for the field, he waited, watching Heines.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span></p>
<p>In the third inning the visitors, steadied by their
manager, again bumped Jewett, and this time old
Jack’s form of attack was not defeated by a streak
of luck. Jewett, sweating and worried after the
first two men had hit safely, lost his control,
passed another, hit the fourth with a pitched ball,
and forced a run. Still Bristol delayed, and the
next Deer, slashing out a clean two-bagger, drove
two more runners across the pan before Hank
gave his pitcher the hook. Elgin came trotting
in from the far corner, and ascended the hillock.</p>
<p>He was greeted by a roar from the great crowd,
which brought a smile to his face, and caused him
to touch his cap proudly.</p>
<p>“I knew he’d have to do it,” bellowed Peter
McLaughlin, when the ovation died down. “Go
right after him, boys. You can get his alley, too.”</p>
<p>Elgin glanced in the direction from which the
landlord’s voice came, and shrugged his shoulders
disdainfully.</p>
<p>“Give that calf more rope, or he’ll bellow his
head off,” he said; at which would-be witticism
the local crowd in the vicinity of McLaughlin broke
into a chorus of jeers and catcalls.</p>
<p>“A pitcher who talks back,” muttered the hotel
proprietor, “has a goat to let. We’ll get his before
the game’s done, or I’m no judge.”</p>
<p>Elgin found the plate with a couple of pitches,
and nodded to the batter, who stepped into his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span>
place. Behind the pan, Yapp, signaling, spoke
only for the hitter’s ear:</p>
<p>“He’s got awful speed. He kills ’em sometimes.
Look out for his bean ball.”</p>
<p>Following the signal, Elgin whipped a scorcher
straight at the head of the batter, who gasped, and
ducked barely in time.</p>
<p>“Look out!” cried the pitcher even as the sphere
left his fingers. And then, as Yapp handled it and
returned it promptly, he said apologetically: “I
haven’t pitched for a week, and I may be a little
wild.”</p>
<p>That was enough for that hitter, whose three
swings failed to touch anything more solid than
the ozone.</p>
<p>“So that’s his game in the bush, is it?” growled
Kennedy. “Don’t let him drive you away from
the plate. Everybody stand up and hit the ball.”</p>
<p>No one, however, seemed to care to be hit by
Elgin’s speed, and the new man stopped the Deers
in their tracks; which brought him another ovation
from the local crowd.</p>
<p>Sullivan started badly by handing one to the
first Buccaneer who faced him in the third which
the hitter slashed into right for a single. Remembering
Bristol’s instructions, the runner
went down to second on Sullivan’s first swing,
from which anchorage it would be possible for
him to score on the right kind of a safety. Then<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span>
Sullivan dealt out a pass, which brought Kennedy
to his feet, and caused Heines to come trotting
slowly and reluctantly toward the mound.</p>
<p>Lefty Locke, joining the spare catcher, began
to warm up.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII<br>
<small>FILLING THE BREACH</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Like Jewett in the first two innings, Heines
was lucky, and the change enabled the
Deers to hold the locals, despite their
savage efforts to increase the lead.</p>
<p>“Keep after them!” urged Kennedy, as the
players came to the bench. “There are six more
innings to follow. If you can hit this fellow Elgin
at all, and we can hold them where they are,
we’ll be neck and neck with them to-night, or I’ve
never seen a game of baseball. Elgin has got a
jinx, and he’ll show up before long. Don’t let
him put the Injun sign on you with his bean ball.”</p>
<p>But, in spite of old Jack’s attempt to encourage
his batters, Elgin seemed to have the “Injun
sign” on the Deers.</p>
<p>“You can’t hit him,” Yapp told the three batters
who faced Buck’s pitcher in the first of the
fourth. “If you did you’d never get farther than
first, for you’d see him tighten like a bowstring.
You never could hit a real pitcher, anyhow.”</p>
<p>He made them believe it, too. And when a batter
thinks he cannot hit a pitcher it is only by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span>
most remarkable bull luck that he ever gets as
much as a scratch single. So Elgin had it easy,
striking out two men and fielding the weak roller
which the third sent his way.</p>
<p>“Gods of war!” growled Kennedy. “I’ll have
to get out there myself, and show them how to hit
this gink. If they ever fell on him he’d take a
sail. Where’s Locke? Oh, there he is—at it.”</p>
<p>Old Jack watched the work of Heines like a
hawk, waiting for the first show of wabbling; for
by this time Locke had loosened his wing, and
could come to the rescue. Just what he could do
against Bert Elgin, Kennedy believed he knew.
The old manager remembered that first game with
the Hornets, when the two youngsters had faced
each other in the Big League; remembered that
Elgin had gone down to defeat and disgrace, while
Lefty Locke made his reputation under the most
trying circumstances a new man could possibly
meet. Just now, as on that other occasion, with
the great mass of spectators favoring him, Elgin
seemed invincible; but with the first cry of “Take
him out!” Kennedy believed the yellow streak
would show. Would the break in the game lead
the local crowd to shout for his removal? While
he was going strong the little bunch of Deering
fans might howl themselves black in the face without
effect.</p>
<p>Peter McLaughlin kept up his efforts to get<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span>
Elgin’s goat, even though by so doing he was inviting
personal injury from rabid Hatfielders
within reach of him. And when a scrap starts
out in the bush it is liable to make Ty Cobb’s whipping
of an insolent fan look like fisticuffs between
kittens at play. McLaughlin, however, had a
mouth, and he was not afraid to use it in Hatfield
or at home.</p>
<p>“Shut up, you old toad,” commanded an angry
spectator, “or somebody will hand you a wallop
on the ear!”</p>
<p>“When you come to Deering,” old Peter flung
back, “you can talk and holler all you please, and
anybody that tries to stop you will get into trouble
with me. You can’t muzzle me here.”</p>
<p>Those who knew him were aware that nothing
save a sleep jab or a gag would keep him still, and
some there were who found amusement in his apparently
futile efforts to jar Elgin.</p>
<p>Two more outfield catches promised to let
Heines get away with another inning, but, with
every man hitting the ball when he put it near the
plate, it was his support that saved him to that
point. Two safeties, however, landed runners on
first and second, and a successful double steal
caused Kennedy to shove out the hook again.
Then the change catcher told Locke that his turn
had come. The crowd watched the southpaw jogging
to the slab; only McLaughlin and the Deering<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span>
fans cheered him. Following that cheer, Elgin,
on the coaching line, called to Pop Doyle, the
man at bat:</p>
<p>“Here’s a portsider with a straight ball and a
prayer. He’ll put one over in your groove if you
wait, and then you’ll show ’em why he isn’t pitching
in the Big League now.”</p>
<p>Doyle, a left-handed hitter, did not like southpaw
pitchers, but Elgin had told every man on the
team that the fellow who called himself Stranger
was a frost; and the batter grinned like a wolf
while Locke got the range of the pan with two or
three throws, after Coffin had told him the signals.</p>
<p>“There’s the fence, Pop!” cried Bristol, swinging
two bats, with the expectation of following
Doyle. “Get another pair of shoes by putting it
over. You’ve won enough footwear to last you
five years already. You can start a little retail
store of your own when the season’s over. Make
Kennedy’s new man contribute to your stock.”</p>
<p>“You can’t get his goat that way,” howled
McLaughlin. “He’s your jinx, and you know it.
Give him a cheer, boys!”</p>
<p>The bunch of Deering rooters responded lustily,
but their cheer was drowned by the crowd roaring
for Doyle to lace it out.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII<br>
<small>THE MAN ON THE MOUND</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Pop Doyle rapped the rubber and
squared away like a man who believed he
could drop another one over the fence
any time he wished. This was the time to do it,
too. This was the time to break the new pitcher’s
heart before he could get his feet under him.
This was the pinch in the game, with the temporarily
faltering tide threatening to flow on and
overwhelm the Deers.</p>
<p>Nor was the sympathy of all the visitors with
the new pitcher. Curley, Sullivan, and Heines
knew that the success of Stranger might mean
that at least one of them would receive his release,
and, together on the bench, they nursed their ineffective
whips, waiting and hoping to see Doyle do
things to the southpaw.</p>
<p>What passed in Lefty Locke’s mind as he toed
the slab and took Coffin’s signal not even Kennedy
could know. Did he remember other occasions
when he had faced batters more formidable than
Doyle and felt no tremor of apprehension, or was
the past a forgotten blank? Was he at that moment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span>
the Phil Hazelton who had made good under
Kennedy with the majors, or was he Bob Stranger,
now pitching for the first time in a game of baseball?
Did he remember Elgin, whose trickery had
so nearly ended his Big League prospects, or was
his present rival and former foe absolutely unknown
to him? Whatever he thought at that moment,
his face revealed nothing. It was as
impassive as a mask; the grim, determined mask
of one who knew his task and was ready to meet it.</p>
<p>Coffin, having signaled, put up his glove behind
Doyle’s shoulder, and, as he had thrown at old
Jack’s hands in the morning, Lefty Locke whipped
the ball past the batter’s chin and into the pocket
of that yawning mitt. There was no attempt to
drive the batter back from the pan, yet Doyle,
jerking his head away, heard the umpire declare a
strike. Instantly he kicked on the decision, and
Hank Bristol flung one of his two bats high into
the air. The local fans roared their disapproval,
encouraged by these movements of the batter and
the manager.</p>
<p>“Robbery!” shouted Bristol.</p>
<p>“Robbery! Robbery!” came from the crowd.
“That was a ball!”</p>
<p>Coffin, laughing, snapped the sphere back to
Lefty, who stopped it with his gloved right hand,
and permitted it to drop into his bare left, the old
movement which was so familiar to Kennedy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span></p>
<p>“That’s him!” whispered old Jack to himself.
“That’s Lefty, sure. Let him get squared away,
and they’re through scoring. If they don’t make
another run this inning, it’s all off, and we’ve got
’em going.”</p>
<p>Lefty gave little heed to the anxious base runners.
He had selected Doyle for his victim, and
it was easier and safer to keep after him than to
take the chance of throwing to the sacks when it
was not necessary to drive the runners back.</p>
<p>Having made his kick, Doyle was satisfied,
though Bristol kept it up until warned by the umpire
that he would be chased from the game.
The next one pitched by Lefty was wide. When
it was called a ball, the crowd sarcastically howled
at the umpire, and asked him if he was sure it was
not a strike.</p>
<p>Peter McLaughlin found it almost impossible
to remain on his seat. “You’ve got him!” the
old man shouted. “He can’t hit ye, Stranger!
He can’t see your fast ones. Give him a curve
now, and see what he can do with it.”</p>
<p>Without looking in the direction of the excited
hotel proprietor, Lefty nodded and smiled.</p>
<p>“I’m going to try you with a curve, Doyle,” he
told the batter. “Let’s see if you can win any
shoes off it.”</p>
<p>Coffin called for another straight one across
Doyle’s shoulder, but Locke shook his head.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span></p>
<p>“I told him I was going to pitch a curve,” he
said. “Mr. Kennedy showed me one or two this
morning. I wonder if I’ve forgotten how to use
them?”</p>
<p>“Lay one over anywhere,” invited Doyle, “and
I’ll break the fence.”</p>
<p>Even as he spoke, Locke pitched, starting the
ball high, and making it take a break across the
batter’s shoulders. Whereupon Doyle pounded
the air for a second strike.</p>
<p>“Told you you had him foul!” whooped McLaughlin.
“How can he hit ’em? He can’t.”</p>
<p>“Make him put ’em across, Pop,” urged Bristol.
“Don’t let him fool you again.”</p>
<p>Now, Lefty had deceived Doyle completely by
telling him just what he was going to pitch, for the
batter had looked for something entirely different.</p>
<p>“Try another,” he entreated. “Give me another
like that, and see it go out of the lot.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Lefty, “I’ll do it, if you’ll agree
to swing.”</p>
<p>“Look out for the straight one now!” shouted
Elgin from the coaching line. “I know his pitching.
That’s the way he mixes ’em—a curve and
a straight one. That’s why he didn’t last in the
Big League. They got wise to him. Meet it, Pop—meet
it!”</p>
<p>But, to the surprise of Elgin, although Lefty
swung his arm as if about to waft over a smoker,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span>
he made such a beautiful change of pace that
Doyle barely saved himself by holding the bat
back on the swing. The slow ball dropped to the
ground six inches in front of the plate, and Coffin
gathered it on the bound.</p>
<p>“That’s two and two,” said Elgin. “It takes
only one to hit it.”</p>
<p>Lefty rubbed his bare hand on the hip of Kennedy’s
old Blue Stocking pants. “I’ve got another
curve,” he observed thoughtfully. “Let me
see if I can remember that one.”</p>
<p>He threw it a moment later, the hook which
dropped and twisted to the far side of the plate
beyond Doyle; and again the batter checked himself
on the swing, rejoicing when the umpire’s decision
made it three to two.</p>
<p>“Now,” he said, “you’ve got to put it over or
hand me a walk. You don’t dare put it across!”</p>
<p>“I’m going to put it across,” promised Lefty;
“and of course I’ll have to use a straight one.”</p>
<p>In such a hole some pitchers would have found
it necessary to use the straight one. Apparently
Locke pitched with that intention. Doyle tried
to meet the ball and hoist it over the fence. It
was another of those baffling “Johnson hooks”
to the outside corner, and he missed by inches.</p>
<p>“You’re out!” cried the umpire; and Peter
McLaughlin had a fit then and there.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV<br>
<small>THE OTHER PITCHER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Old Jack Kennedy’s lips were pressed together,
not a word coming from them as
Lefty Locke strode to the bench; but in
the depths of the manager’s eyes there was a
wonderful glow, and he could feel his usually
steady pulse pounding with an erratic throb.</p>
<p>“Here’s the boy who could have pitched the
Blue Stockings to a pennant,” he thought; “and
Al Carson didn’t know a good thing when he had
it. He didn’t know how to handle the lad.”</p>
<p>“Did I get away with that all right?” asked
Lefty, with surprising simplicity.</p>
<p>“Huh!” grunted Kennedy. “They didn’t
score, did they? You ain’t heard anybody kickin’,
have you?”</p>
<p>“He’s some pitcher—he really is,” murmured
Coffin, slipping into place between Sullivan and
Curley.</p>
<p>“Oh, wait,” muttered the big red-headed
pitcher. “He’s only had to face one man, and I
didn’t see that he showed so much.”</p>
<p>“The Bucks will size him up in about two innings,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span>
prophesied Curley, “and when they do—good
night, Mr. Stranger!”</p>
<p>“They’ve got a real pitcher in that fellow Elgin,”
said Sullivan. “He struts like a peacock,
sure; but he’s got speed and slants, and he knows
where to put ’em.”</p>
<p>“It’s my opinion,” said Coffin, “that Bob
Stranger has got a little smoke himself, and that
queer, twisting drop of his would fool old Honus
Wagner.”</p>
<p>“Yes, it would!” scoffed Curley. “It fooled
Doyle once, but wait till next time, Coff—just you
wait!”</p>
<p>Even while this brief conversation was taking
place, Elgin, still graceful, confident, and filled
with ginger by the applause of the crowd, retired
Captain Kilgore by the pop-fly route, and took on
Buster Brown. Coffin, who followed Brown, began
looking around for his pet bat.</p>
<p>“You look to me like a blowed-up bladder,” said
Brown, addressing Elgin. “Put one across, and
see me nail it. But look out you don’t blow all to
pieces when the bladder’s pricked.”</p>
<p>“Get his goat! Get his goat!” howled Peter
McLaughlin from the stand. “You can get it!”</p>
<p>Elgin gave Brown a contemptuous smile.
“Why,” he said, “you couldn’t hit me if I told you
what I was going to throw. This will be a spitter.
You never could hit a spitter.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span></p>
<p>Holding the ball covered by both hands, his head
went back with a motion which seemed to indicate
that he pasted one side of the ball with saliva.
Then he actually threw the spitter to Brown, and
Brown missed.</p>
<p>“I’ll give you another, you big dub!” said Elgin.
“Another just like that. Now, go ahead
with your puncturing.”</p>
<p>As good as his word, he threw another spitter,
and again Brown fanned.</p>
<p>“Say,” said the batter, “you’re copying the
style of Kennedy’s new left-hander, ain’t you, telling
the batter what you’re going to throw?
You’re nothing but a plain copy, anyhow.”</p>
<p>Somehow this touched Elgin, and his face
burned. “If I was going to copy anybody,” he
retorted, “I’d take a real pitcher for a model.”</p>
<p>“Keep him chewin’ the rag,” bellowed McLaughlin.
“You’ll git that goat yet.”</p>
<p>Indeed, Elgin was so exasperated that he made
a tremendously wild pitch, and, seeing it coming,
Brown took a chance, and pretended that he was
trying to hit it. With the swing, he let his bat fly
to one side, and was off toward first, which he
reached before the disgusted Yapp could recover
the ball and stop him.</p>
<p>“Oh, wow, wow!” laughed Buster mockingly.
“It’s a good thing the stand was behind Yapp.
They’d never found that wild heave if it hadn’t<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span>
been. Keep on shooting your face off, peacock.
We like it.”</p>
<p>“You’d never get to first any other way,” said
Elgin. “Congratulate yourself.”</p>
<p>“Never mind him,” called Yapp, as the catcher
for the Deers walked out to the plate. “Put a nail
in this Coffin. You can do that just as well as you
can Kilgore.”</p>
<p>“Why, you’re a real wit, Yappy,” said Coffin.
“Why don’t you get his umps to call time while
you laugh at your own jokes?”</p>
<p>“Speaking about jokes,” returned Yapp,
“you’re one. I heard Kennedy kept you in the
game and put you behind the bat for your hitting.
Well, you won’t fat your average off Elgin.”</p>
<p>Now, Yapp really knew Coffin’s weakness, and,
with Elgin’s perfect control, the man was worked
for a strike-out, although Brown stole second
while this was taking place.</p>
<p>“Don’t exert yourself,” said Elgin, looking
around at Buster; “’twon’t be necessary.”</p>
<p>Lefty Locke was the hitter now, and Elgin
seemed to have little doubt in his mind as to what
he could do with him.</p>
<p>“You thought you was something when you
made the Blue Stockings, didn’t you?” said Elgin,
as Lefty took his place in the box.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon,” returned Locke. “I
think you’ve got me mixed with some other man.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span></p>
<p>“Oh, you do, eh?” sneered Bert. “Call yourself
Stranger now, eh? I sure don’t blame you at
all.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you pitch instead of talking so
much?” demanded Lefty impatiently.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ll pitch in a minute,” returned the other,
nodding to Yapp to signal. “You seem in a big
hurry to strike out.”</p>
<p>Lefty made no further remark, but waited in position
to swing easily at anything the pitcher
might put over. Nevertheless, two strikes were
called on him, and he had not attempted to hit
one, much to the amusement of the great crowd,
before he finally got what he wanted. The ring
of wood meeting leather brought a gasp from the
crowd. It was a line drive straight over the head
of Berlin, who jumped vainly for it.</p>
<p>Now, at Elgin’s suggestion, the fielders had all
been switched round to the left; for, despite the
fact that he was a left-hander, Locke frequently
hit hard into left field. This movement had
brought the right fielder almost in line with that
tremendous drive; otherwise he could not have
touched it. The change enabled him to make a
marvelous running bare-handed catch which
robbed Lefty of a three-bagger, at least, and prevented
Brown from tying up the score.</p>
<p>“Oh, dear, dear!” sighed Peter McLaughlin,
sinking back into his seat. “What a crack!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span>
What luck! Why, that fellow can hit ’em—he just
can.”</p>
<p>Brown, swinging toward home after crossing
third, and being told that it was useless to run,
twisted his mug at Bert Elgin.</p>
<p>“Luck saved you that time, Mr. Pouter Pigeon,”
he said. “You’re due to get yours good and
plenty before the day is over.”</p>
<p>Although he shrugged and sneered, away down
deep in his heart Elgin felt a touch of apprehension
lest the words of Buster Brown were
prophetic.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV<br>
<small>THE STEAL HOME</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">The game, which had started out so loosely,
and threatened to become wretched at any
moment, was now turned into a pitchers’
battle, with Locke and Elgin working against each
other. Settling down, Lefty became silent, attending
strictly to business. At no time, save in
the threatening moments, did he seem exerting
himself to his utmost. The uproar of the crowd,
calculated to disturb his coolness, seemed no more
effective than the murmur of a summer breeze.</p>
<p>“If they think they can rattle him in this little
one-horse burg,” Kennedy whispered to himself,
“they should have seen him pitchin’ before thirty
thousand howlin’ fans in the Big League. Why,
he’s just monkeyin’ with that bunch. With him,
we can walk away with the bunting, sure as fate.”</p>
<p>With him! But what right had he to keep
Lefty Locke, under contract with the Blue Stockings?
What right had he to hold this man, the
lack of whose pitching might prevent the Blue
Stockings from taking the championship? Was
it not his duty to notify Al Carson as soon as possible<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span>
that the missing pitcher had turned up in
Deering?</p>
<p>“But Lefty’s under suspension,” thought Kennedy.
“They wouldn’t be using him now if they
had him. Oh, I’ve got to talk it over with him,
and talk straight. It’s the only way.”</p>
<p>There was little time for thoughts like these.
The locals still held that one-run lead, and Elgin,
pitching like a man with life at stake, refused in
the sixth and seventh innings to let one of the
Deers as much as threaten to tie it up. On the
other hand, in both of those innings the Bucks got
a runner to second with only one out, whereupon,
however, Locke tightened promptly, and there was
nothing further doing.</p>
<p>The eighth opened with Brown leading off, and
he talked to Elgin a blue streak until the pitcher
finally fanned him.</p>
<p>“Go sit down, and close up that hot-air vent,”
said Bert.</p>
<p>Coffin picked a slant, and smashed it like a
bullet straight into the hands of the shortstop for
the second out.</p>
<p>Then, again, Lefty Locke stepped forth, and
Peter McLaughlin shrieked:</p>
<p>“Here’s the man to hit him! Here’s the boy!
It’s all off now! He’ll tie it up.”</p>
<p>Once more, away down in Elgin’s heart, he felt
that throb of apprehension. This was the man<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span>
who had ruined his chances in the Big League, the
man who had seemed favored in everything by
luck—Lucky Locke he should be called, Elgin
thought. And only for the chance that had
brought Hartford over nearly into center field,
Locke would have scored Brown on a clean drive
the last time up.</p>
<p>“I’ll pass him,” declared Elgin suddenly.
“I’ll pretend I’m trying to put the ball over, but
I’ll pass him.”</p>
<p>It was the weak spot, the yellow streak coming
to the surface. With two out and no one on the
sacks, there was really little danger that Locke
could make a home run; yet Elgin was afraid.
From over at one side, in the midst of the little
knot of Deering fans, Peter McLaughlin seemed
to realize Elgin’s purpose by the time Bert had
handed up the second wide one.</p>
<p>“He’s scat!” yelled the old hotel man. “Yaller—yaller!
He don’t dare put one over! He’s
quittin’!”</p>
<p>The coachers took up the cry of “Yellow,” and
Elgin viciously bit his under lip.</p>
<p>“I’ll just put one bender over,” he decided.
“I’ll show them that I’m not afraid to slant one
across.”</p>
<p>Using his curve, he put the ball over; but it
never reached the waiting hands of Yapp. Again
Lefty met it fairly, and again it went whistling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span>
out on a line. This time, however, neither infielder
nor outfielder could touch it. Only for a
long rebound from the fence into the hands of a
player, who promptly returned the sphere to the
diamond, Locke, covering ground like a deer,
would have turned the hit into a homer.</p>
<p>McLaughlin and the Deering bunch were howling
themselves purple in the face. Old Jack Kennedy,
on the coaching line, flapped his arms and
laughed at Elgin, whose face was pale as a sheet
of paper.</p>
<p>“Why, he knows how to hit you, Elgin. He can
do it every time,” said the old manager. “If the
head of the list wasn’t up now, I’d go in myself
and pound him across. Collins,” he snapped, as
Chick came out from the bench with a bat, “if you
dodge a bean ball this time I’ll fine you a week’s
pay. Take it on the nut if he throws it.”</p>
<p>“If he—if he does,” muttered Elgin hoarsely,
“you’ll carry him home in a box.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no—oh, no!” derided old Jack. “Why,
you couldn’t crack a pane of glass with your swift
one. Get hit, Chick, if he throws at you—get hit.”</p>
<p>“All right,” grinned Collins. “Let her come.”</p>
<p>Elgin pitched only once to Collins before something
happened. Yapp snapped the ball back, and
Bert, catching it with one hand, was kicking a pebble
out of the pitching box when a sudden wild yell
arose. He turned in surprise, and saw Locke racing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span>
down from third, actually attempting to tie
the score by stealing home. And that with the
head of the batting order up! The astounding
unexpectedness of such a thing took away Elgin’s
breath, and made him hesitate for a fraction of a
second.</p>
<p>Yapp, leaping forward to block the runner off,
shrieked for Elgin to throw the ball. Awaking
suddenly, Bert threw it. In his haste, however,
he whipped it wide, and Yapp was forced to reach
in the wrong direction.</p>
<p>Lefty Locke hit the dirt feet first, shot under
the Buccaneers’ catcher, and scraped one foot
across the rubber.</p>
<p>“Safe!” shouted the umpire, his hands outspread.</p>
<p>The great crowd was silent—all save a little
bunch led by Peter McLaughlin, who were yelling
like lunatics. Elgin, ghastly white, was dumb. It
had happened, after all—the thing he feared;
this fellow Locke had snatched the opportunity
to make him ridiculous before a bush-league
crowd. Like poison fire, hatred burned and
seethed in Elgin’s heart. He did not hear Bristol
raging at him from first. His eyes followed
Locke as the latter, rising, pounded the dust out of
Kennedy’s Blue Stocking uniform, and turned toward
the bench as calmly as if stealing home was
a common thing with him.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI<br>
<small>STRANGER IS ANNOYED</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">“Gods of our fathers!” said Buster
Brown as Locke reached the bench.
“You done it, old boy, and you done
it slick. I’ll bet that man Elgin goes up so far
you can’t see him with the Lick telescope.”</p>
<p>As for Elgin, he spent some minutes in an apparent
endeavor to steady himself; then, when he
pitched again to Collins, Chick smashed out a safe
drive.</p>
<p>The fusillade of singles and doubles and triples
which followed gave the Deers four more runs before
Bristol came to realize that Elgin was wholly
gone, and sent another man to the mound.</p>
<p>“Got his goat! I knew we would!” rejoiced
Landlord McLaughlin. “It’s all over but the
shouting. Nobody is afeared of the Buccaneers
now.”</p>
<p>Appalled and silenced by the sudden turn of the
game and the amazing and unexpected downfall
of their pitching hero, many of the disgusted local
spectators crept out of the stand and stole away
before the Buccaneers went down to defeat in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span>
last of the ninth, vainly seeking up to the finish to
fathom the delivery of Kennedy’s southpaw.</p>
<p>When it was all over, Locke lost not a moment
in dashing away toward the dressing room—an
action which seemed instinctive or born of baseball
experience in other days. He was pursued
by the shrill cheering of the little bunch of delighted
Deering fans.</p>
<p>Elgin had vanished. Crushed, bitter, unspeakably
humiliated, after his removal from the box
he had lost no time in leaving the field. He could
not realize that retribution had reached forth its
iron hand and touched him again, as it will any
and all of us who do wrong and have a conscience
that must cause us to suffer.</p>
<p>Reaching the dressing room, Lefty had peeled
off the old uniform, and was ready for a hasty
shower before his teammates arrived. They came
in rejoicing, with the possible exception of the
jealous pitchers who had failed in the early stages
of the game.</p>
<p>“Stranger, of the southpaw!” cried Kilgore, as
Locke seized a towel and began rubbing himself
dry. “You were there when the hour struck.
That steal home broke Elgin’s heart. Never saw
a man blow up so sudden before. Couldn’t touch
him before that; everybody hit him afterward.”</p>
<p>Old Jack Kennedy came in. “Let me massage
that portside flinger of yours, Stranger,” he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span>
urged. “We’ve no regular rubber to look after
it, so I’ll have to give it what it needs.”</p>
<p>Lefty submitted to the massaging of his strong,
free-swinging left arm and shoulder.</p>
<p>“How did you happen to try that steal to the
plate?” asked Kennedy, as he worked over the
man’s arm.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” was the answer. “Seems to
me I’ve done it before, but of course I haven’t,
never having played baseball.”</p>
<p>“You have played baseball—take it from me,”
said Kennedy. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten about
it, but you’ve played the game aplenty.”</p>
<p>“Anyhow,” said Locke, “something told me to
go home when I saw Elgin getting a bit careless
in the box. I knew it would tie things up if I
scored, and it might put him off his pins. If I
failed, we’d still have another chance in the first
of the ninth inning. Before I knew it I was
streaking to the plate. Of course it was luck.”</p>
<p>“Of course there was some luck about it,”
agreed old Jack; “but it took nerve and judgment.
If you’d failed, everybody would have handed you
the laugh.”</p>
<p>“That wouldn’t have disturbed me,” said
Locke. “A man can’t do much if he’s never going
to try anything for fear he’ll be laughed at if he
fails. Sometimes a sense of humor helps; other
times it hurts.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span></p>
<p>“That’s philosophy,” said Kennedy. “Now
you’re talking like yourself, son.”</p>
<p>Indeed, at that moment Locke appeared like
the fine, forceful, jovial fellow Kennedy had
known him to be, having lost much of his shadowy
gloom and all that peculiar style of talk which
had bothered old Jack not a little.</p>
<p>Locke was fully dressed and ready to leave when
a prematurely corpulent young man arrived at the
dressing-room door and inquired for Phil Hazelton.</p>
<p>“Nobody by that name here,” he was told.</p>
<p>“Wait a minute,” called Kennedy, who had
heard the words. “Who’s that? The young doctor
who follows up the Bucks? I’ve seen him over
in Deering.”</p>
<p>“My name is Hetner,” said the man at the door.
“I’m Doctor Wallace Hetner, and I’d like to have
just a word with my old college friend, Hazelton.
Perhaps he doesn’t call himself by that name in
baseball. Perhaps he calls himself Locke. And
I see by the score sheet that he was down to-day
as Stranger.”</p>
<p>Lefty turned and stepped to the door to face
the speaker.</p>
<p>“You must mean me,” he said. “I’m the
Stranger who pitched for the Deers.”</p>
<p>“And you’re Phil Hazelton,” said Doctor Hetner.
“I wondered what had become of you, Hazelton.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span>
You were on the train with me when the
smash came. You were on that very smoking
car. I spoke to you a short time before the car
jumped the track. Don’t you remember?”</p>
<p>Locke shook his head.</p>
<p>“It’s a singular thing,” he said, “but people
get me mixed up with someone else. They persist
in thinking I’m some other person. My name is
Robert Stranger, pal. I’m a diamond cutter by
trade. My health ain’t just what it should be, and
a pill slinger advised me to get outdoors somewhere
and work on a farm. That’s how I happen
to be here.”</p>
<p>Hetner’s jaw dropped, and he stared hard at
the speaker. At the same time, behind Locke’s
back, Kennedy clenched his right fist, and his eyes
narrowed as he listened to this sudden change in
the young left-hander’s style of speech.</p>
<p>“That’s right, doctor,” he said suddenly.
“Folks seem to think that Stranger, here, is someone
else. Even I made that mistake. It annoys
him.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean to tell me,” persisted Doctor
Hetner, his eyes fastened on Locke, “that you
weren’t on that train when a broken rail sent us
into the ditch? I looked for you among the injured
or killed, but couldn’t find you.”</p>
<p>“I never was in a train wreck in my life,” said
Lefty.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span></p>
<p>Baffled, the doctor turned away, mumbling an
excuse, although not at all satisfied.</p>
<p>“I wish they’d quit that,” said Lefty, brushing
a hand across his forehead. “I wish they’d stop
taking me for some other person. It’s infernally
annoying.”</p>
<p>“It must be,” agreed Kennedy, turning to Toots
Kilgore. “Toots,” he said, in a low tone, “take
the boys to the hotel and get supper. If I’m not
there, I’ll meet you at the train.”</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII<br>
<small>THE DOCTOR’S DOUBTS</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">“Yes,” said Doctor Hetner, sitting in his
office, facing Manager Kennedy, “of
course it’s possible for such a thing to
happen. Of course, the man’s mind may be affected,
and he may not remember his former life
and friends. At the same time, he may be suffering
under a delusion, which has led him to take
a new name and assume a different character.
Such instances, although rare, are well known to
medical science.”</p>
<p>“What brings them about?” inquired Kennedy
eagerly.</p>
<p>“Overstudy, overwork, a diseased condition of
the body or mind, a sudden shock—oh, numerous
things. It has almost a thousand different forms.
Psychologists and physicians who make a study
of the subject recognize many of the symptoms.”</p>
<p>“Have you made a study of it, doc?”</p>
<p>“Not what you might call a thorough study, although,
of course, among my books I have many
which deal with neurasthenia and its allied forms.
Still, I’ll give you my word that I never for a moment
recognized the symptoms in Hazelton. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span>
seemed to me that the fellow, when he met me on
the train, was simply declining to acknowledge an
old acquaintance for reasons of pride or something
of that sort. That it was aphasia didn’t
occur to me. It’s likely you know how he happened
to go into baseball under a fake name?”</p>
<p>“But there ain’t no disgrace playing baseball
these days,” growled the old manager. “There’s
as clean a set of fellers in the game as you can find
anywhere.”</p>
<p>“Nevertheless, prejudice exists in the minds of
many old-fashioned persons, such as Phil Hazelton’s
father must be. To them, playing baseball
is a great deal like taking part in a circus
performance. They can’t see that it has become
an honorable, legitimate, recognized profession,
followed by hundreds upon hundreds of clean, honest
young men. You understand why I doubt this
being a genuine case of loss of identity? I believe
Hazelton is trying to hide himself under an
assumed name and personality.”</p>
<p>Old Jack shook his head.</p>
<p>“He ain’t no fool, doctor; he can’t help knowing
that I know him and you know him. Elgin
knows him, too. If he was a simple-minded idiot,
he might continue to try to keep up the bluff. I
tell you, that boy has gone wrong in his garret,
and something ought to be done for him. I don’t
know just how to do it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span></p>
<p>“Well, now, look here,” said the doctor; “I’m
coming over to Deering in a day or two, Kennedy.
In the meantime, I want you to try to trip Hazelton.
Lead him into some sort of a give-away, an
admission, then nail him. Tell him it isn’t any
use to stick to the bluff.”</p>
<p>“And have him get red-headed and tell me to
go straight to—well, you know where.”</p>
<p>“Never mind that.”</p>
<p>“But I do mind. With him pitching for the
Deers, we can put ourselves into first place in two
weeks’ time. I know just what he can do. Talk
about John Coombs, the iron man, or ‘Cy’ Young
in his palmy days—why, Lefty Locke is as good
as either of them. He can pitch three days running,
if necessary; and two or three games a week,
with a day between each, is like loafing for him, especially
in this bush league. Oh, I don’t want
him to quit me!”</p>
<p>“I don’t blame you,” said Hetner, laughing;
“but I don’t believe he’ll quit. Yet, if he belongs
to the Blue Stockings, and they’re in need of
him—”</p>
<p>Kennedy growled. “Then it’s up to me, if I’m
decent, to let ’em know where they can find him.
No matter how I feel about the way I was treated,
it’s up to me just the same.”</p>
<p>“Still,” said the physician, “if the man isn’t
right in his head, it would be wrong for him to go<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span>
on pitching baseball without any treatment whatever.”</p>
<p>“Treatment?” said Kennedy. “Does treatment
always cure ’em?”</p>
<p>“Sometimes it won’t do a blessed bit of good.
Nothing cures them but a long rest, and, perhaps,
a sudden accidental occurrence which flashes back
into their brain the realization of their true identity.
Sometimes a situation may be successfully
planned to bring this about; more often the most
skillful planning results in absolute failure. But
remember, I haven’t stated that Hazelton is a victim
of such a delusion.”</p>
<p>“We’ll find out whether he is or not, doctor,”
said the old manager, rising. “If he’s fooling,
I’ll catch him at it. I’ll let you know right away
if I trip him somehow. So long, doc.”</p>
<p>Kennedy had time to snatch a bite at the hotel
and accompany the team to the station to take the
train for Deering. Arriving at the latter place,
they were welcomed by a gathering at the station,
for the whole town had learned by telephone the
result of the game in Hatfield.</p>
<p>“Where’s your new pitcher, Jack—where is
he?” they shouted. “He ought to be all right.”</p>
<p>“He is,” assured Kennedy, waiting on the car
platform until Lefty was forced to appear. “He
didn’t let the Bucks have a run after he mounted
the slab. Here’s Bob Stranger, gents, and, believe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span>
me, he’s the man I’ve been looking for to
win the pennant with. If I can keep him, we’ll
nail it.”</p>
<p>“Keep him!” yelled one of the crowd. “If you
let him get away, your life won’t be safe around
these parts!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII<br>
<small>FIRST POSITION</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Of course, Locke went out to the farm
with old Jack, and again they sat on the
veranda, this time watching the moon
coming up over the eastern horizon. For a long
time Kennedy was silent as he smoked, and Locke
also seemed busied with his thoughts. The moonlight,
creeping beneath the veranda, fell upon
Lefty’s face, making it seem strangely handsome
and strangely sad. Suddenly the old manager
burst out laughing.</p>
<p>“Wonder if Bert Elgin will get his release the
way he did the first time you went up against him
with the Blue Stockings behind you, son?” he said.
“You remember what Brennan done to Elgin after
that game was over?”</p>
<p>Locke swung round and faced the speaker.</p>
<p>“I don’t remember anything at all,” he said,
“because, as far as I’m concerned, it never happened.
Like the others, Mr. Kennedy, you’ve got
me mixed up with another man.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe so,” said old Jack; “but I don’t believe
it. Look here, if you ain’t Lefty Locke, the boy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span>
who pitched for me when I was handling the Blue
Stockings the first of the season, how does it happen
that you can go into a game same as you did
to-day and pitch like a veteran?”</p>
<p>“That’s one thing I can’t answer,” was the
confession. “Of course, you gave me some practice
here in the morning, but—”</p>
<p>Kennedy snapped his fingers. “All I gave you
didn’t amount to that, unless you knew how to
pitch before,” he declared. “No matter how
much you remembered, it was what you didn’t
seem to remember that was telling you what to do
in that game. That’s how you could go in there
and win for us. I don’t know where you picked
up the name of Stranger, but—”</p>
<p>“I’ve always had that name. I’m a diamond
cutter, pal. My folks were rather strait-laced, and
I was a wild one. They’re both gone, and I’m
alone in the world.”</p>
<p>“That sounds first-rate as fur as it goes,” said
Kennedy; “but it don’t go fur. Where was you
born, and where was you brung up? You’ve got
plenty of folks who know about you, of course.
Where be they?”</p>
<p>“I was just trying to think,” said Locke.
“Something has made me forget, but I’ll remember
to-morrow, perhaps.”</p>
<p>“Hope you do,” said Kennedy. “If you remember,
you’ll get it straightened out that I was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span>
your manager. The new owner fired me, and Al
Carson took my place. Something happened between
you and Carson. You didn’t get along. I
was watching things in the papers. You was fined
and suspended. Then the team was mixed up in
that railroad smash, an—”</p>
<p>“Stop!” interrupted Locke, in mingled excitement
and confusion. “I can’t follow you as fast
as that. No use for me to try.”</p>
<p>“But you remember—you remember now?”
persisted Kennedy.</p>
<p>“Not a thing,” was the reply. “I still think
you’re mistaken.”</p>
<p>The following morning Kennedy sent a telegram
to Al Carson, of the Blue Stockings:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="noi">Can tell you where to find your missing pitcher, Locke.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">John Kennedy.</span><br></p>
</div>
<p>By noon he received an answer:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="noi">Don’t want to find him. He’s blacklisted for quitting.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Carson.</span><br></p>
</div>
<p>“Hooray!” said Kennedy, as he thrust the message
into his pocket. “I’ve done my duty. They
don’t want him. Now I can keep him—unless he
gets cured of a sudden, and goes hustling back to
them.”</p>
<p>For a time the old manager felt nothing but
keenest satisfaction over the situation. Gradually,
however, having a conscience, he began to fret<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span>
and worry. It was all wrong, he told himself, and
the fact that Carson was prejudiced and had given
Locke a rotten deal did not excuse him for remaining
silent under the circumstances and using the
youngster to his advantage. If Locke’s mind was
affected immediate treatment was what the young
man needed—immediate attention by an expert
in mental disorders; and Kennedy could not con
himself into satisfaction by saying over and over
that nothing could be better for Lefty than the
peace and quiet of the country, together with an
occasional game of baseball to keep awake his interest
in a life of action.</p>
<p>“But I’ll wait till Monday, when the Bucks come
over here,” he told himself. “That young doctor
likely will come along at the same time, and we can
talk it over again. I’ve got to have advice.”</p>
<p>In this manner he pacified his troublesome conscience
for the time being.</p>
<p>In the afternoon, playing the Stars upon Deering
field, the Deers, with Curley on the hillock,
had it pretty much their own way. Danger of
release had spurred Curley to do his level best,
and in all the pinches he pitched with a skill which
made his performance one of the finest exhibitions
he had ever given in that bush league.</p>
<p>Furthermore, the snatching of the game from
the Buccaneers had inspired the Deers with new
hope and fire, and they backed Curley up in an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span>
errorless manner, and hit well. Not only that,
but both Sullivan and Heines, before the game
started, had asked to pitch.</p>
<p>Kennedy knew what that meant. The work of
Locke, and the probability that some one of the
others would get his release, had put them all on
their mettle.</p>
<p>“Got ’em now,” thought old Jack; “got ’em
where I want ’em. They’ll all work till they drop
in the harness, and it’s only up to me to keep
watch that I don’t push ’em beyond the limit.”</p>
<p>On the other hand, the Stars were nervous and
fearful and altogether too eager. They seemed
to realize that the Deers, unless beaten right away,
would eventually leap into first place and clinch
the championship. A day or two earlier they had
feared the Buccaneers most, but the victory of the
Deers over the Bucks had brought a new menace to
the front; and the former champions, having endured
the strain to the seventh inning, went to
pieces generally, handing the locals a well-earned
but rather staggering victory.</p>
<p>Lefty Locke sat on the bench, again wearing
Kennedy’s Blue Stocking uniform. He had
warmed up a little, although the manager had
scarcely a thought of putting him in under any
circumstances; and the visitors had watched him
with the utmost interest. For surely an unknown
twirler thrown into a game at Hatfield by Kennedy,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[254]</span>
and able to stop the fierce Buccaneers in
their tracks, was a real pitcher.</p>
<p>“I wonder who he really is?” the bushers asked
one another. “Stranger—that ain’t his name,
never!”</p>
<p>After the game was over, Kennedy, outwardly
calm, but inwardly chuckling with satisfaction,
made his way to the Central House, where he
found Landlord McLaughlin ready to set out the
cigars for everybody.</p>
<p>“Well, say, Jack,” called the proprietor, as
Kennedy strolled in, mopping his perspiring face,
“things have turned our way, sartain. I knowed
you could do it if we could only get you to take
holt of the team. That there championship is as
good as ourn.”</p>
<p>“Don’t count your chickens before they’re
hatched, Peter,” advised Kennedy. “You’ll find
the Buccaneers and Hank Bristol still in the game.
Of course, they put the Boobs to the mat to-day,
but our winning from the Stars keeps us neck and
neck with ’em, and ready to step into fust place
before we go under the wire at the finish. To-morrow
we’ll have a crack at the Boobs, and Monday
we get another swing at the Bucks right here
to home. Monday I’ll pitch Stranger again.
Watch him trim them, if the boys back him up the
way they did Curley to-day.”</p>
<p>“Say, Jack,” chuckled the old man behind the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span>
cigar counter, as he put forth box after box, “this
town is sartain red-hot baseball crazy right now.
Talk about Deering being dead! Why, it’s the
liveliest little burg between the two oceans. Mark
me, next Monday we’ll have out the best crowd
that has ever seen a baseball game in these
parts.”</p>
<p>From a near-by booth came a sharp call of the
telephone bell.</p>
<p>“Mebbe that’s the report of the game at Somerset,”
said McLaughlin, leaving the cigars for anybody
who wanted them to take one or a handful,
and turning toward the booth. “I’ll just see if
’tis, and find out how bad the Buccaneers beat the
Boobs.”</p>
<p>He entered the booth, and closed the door.
Those outside heard him shouting into the receiver
a few minutes later: “What? What’s that?
Say it over. Ain’t you got that wrong end to?
Well, I swan to man! Good-by.”</p>
<p>The minute he could push open the door and
stick his head out, he cried:</p>
<p>“The Bucks have gone up! The Boobs beat
’em four to two. We’re at the head of the league.
Hooray!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[256]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX<br>
<small>A TROUBLED MIND</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">A person who has never had any experience
with baseball in the bush can
scarcely realize the effect upon Deering
of the knowledge that the local team had jumped
into the lead and stood more than a fair prospect,
managed by Kennedy, of winning the championship.
The place, which ordinarily seemed rather
sleepy and lifeless, suddenly seethed. Almost
everyone, save crabbed old men or cranks prejudiced
against the game, talked baseball, praised
Kennedy, and speculated concerning his new left-handed
wonder, who had beaten the dangerous
Buccaneers.</p>
<p>On Saturday afternoon the crowd that came
streaming out to the field gladdened the hearts of
the team’s backers by the manner in which they
forked over their quarters at the box office. A
flow of silver poured in, and the Deers, who had
once seemed likely to end the season several hundred
dollars in debt, saw a prospect of coming out
ahead in finances—a prospect which made everyone
rejoice.</p>
<p>Of course Lefty Locke was the hero of the day.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span>
Everyone stared at him. The girls whispered and
giggled as they looked in his direction, and even
young married women discreetly ventured to say
that they considered him a very handsome man.
There was something about his reserved bearing,
the melancholy touch in his face, and the somber
shadow in his eyes which seemed poetical and
fascinating to those of the fair sex who observed
him.</p>
<p>In some manner, stories about him began to be
whispered around. It was suggested that he had
a broken heart, caused by some foolish girl, who
had thrown him over for another man. Another
story was that he was mourning for his sweetheart,
who had died. The one humorous yarn of the lot
was that he was a married man and the father
of several children.</p>
<p>But no matter what baseless speculation was
circulated, each and every one of these stories
simply made him seem all the more fascinating and
attractive to the young women of Deering.</p>
<p>But Lefty favored not one of them with more
than a passing glance, and never in his eyes was
there as much as a twinkling light.</p>
<p>They had a chance to see Locke in action in the
ninth inning, when, after pitching a great game to
that point, Sullivan let down a little, and the
Boobs, scampering over the sacks as they chose,
threatened to snatch victory from defeat.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[258]</span></p>
<p>Old Jack was watching every turn like a hawk,
and promptly he pulled Sullivan from the mound,
and sent out Locke, who had warmed up once before
and once during the game, but was now cold.</p>
<p>With one man down, Lefty took the next two
batters in hand, and buried the whooping, aggressive
Boobs in short order. The first man he
fanned, and the next he forced into putting up a
little pop foul back of first base, which ended the
game.</p>
<p>Coming down from the park, half an hour later,
Locke was surrounded and pursued by at least
twenty youngsters, who openly discussed him for
his own ears to hear, all agreeing that as a pitcher
Christy Mathewson had nothing on this great
southpaw.</p>
<p>Ordinarily this would have provided no small
amount of amusement for Lefty; now, however, he
scarcely seemed to hear or see any of them as
he strode along, his expression one of troubled
thought.</p>
<p>Was it possible that he was beginning to realize
that his name was not Robert Stranger, and that,
for all his protestations that he had never played
baseball before coming to Deering, he had a past
upon the diamond? At any rate, he moved like a
shadow among those admiring people of Deering—among
them, but not of them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[259]</span></p>
<p>Sunday followed—Sunday on Kennedy’s farm.
Old Jack made a suggestion about church, but
Locke shook his head, saying he did not care to attend.
And all day long he wandered restlessly
about the farm, or sat idly on the veranda, declining
to read, apparently striving to think—to
think.</p>
<p>“The poor boy’s worried, Jack,” said Mrs.
Kitty Malone. “It upsets me complete to see him
this way.”</p>
<p>“Kit, I never thought the sight of any man
would upset you again,” returned her brother.
“I thought you’d had enough of them.”</p>
<p>“So I have. But this is different—this case.
He’s only a boy. I feel like a mother toward
him.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you do!” laughed Kennedy. “Oh, yes,
you do—not. Why, you’re not so much older, Kit—not
more than ten year, and he really is almost
a boy.”</p>
<p>“But ten year,” she said sadly. “If ’twere
t’other way ’twould be different. Do you know
what’s on his mind, Jack?”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure,” he replied; “but mebbe I could
make a guess. He had a girl once, if I remember
right.”</p>
<p>“Once!” she exclaimed. “I’m jealous this
minute. But, then, I don’t see how he could help<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[260]</span>
having twenty of them. What’s become of
her?”</p>
<p>Kennedy shook his head. “Ask me!” he said.
“There’s a whole lot about Lefty Locke that I’m
guessin’ at.”</p>
<p>“Lefty Locke? He calls himself Stranger.”</p>
<p>“A man can call himself anything he pleases;
there’s no law against it.”</p>
<p>“It’s a real pitcher he is, Jack?”</p>
<p>“Sis, you should have seen him pitch against
Bristol’s Bucks! If you want to, you’ll have a
chance to see him pitch against them Monday. I’m
going to put him in. You should have seen him
pitch for the Blue Stockings. They lost the best
man on the staff when they lost him, but Al Carson
is such a pig-headed chump that he won’t acknowledge
it. He’d rather lose the pennant than own
up that he’d made a mistake.”</p>
<p>“And that’s the man they threw you down for,
Jack, is it—after you’d won the championship
twice before? It’s always the way in this world.
The one who delivers the goods is thrown down
for another who’s got the cheek to crowd himself
in.”</p>
<p>“Not always the way, sis,” contradicted Kennedy,
shaking his head. “It sometimes happens
so, and when it does pessimists are inclined to
say it always happens.”</p>
<p>“What are these pessimists ye speak of?” she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[261]</span>
asked quickly. “I don’t think I ever met one of
them.”</p>
<p>“You were a bit inclined to be one yourself,”
he replied, “until Robert Stranger came to the
farm.”</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[262]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL<br>
<small>THE REPORTER</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Everyone had heard that Locke would
pitch again on Monday, and, having seen
him wind up the game for Sullivan, their
curiosity and interest was whetted to the highest
point. Doubtless Bristol would be fierce and determined
to get back into the running by downing
the Deers, and perhaps he would use again his
wonderful new pitcher, who had held the Deers
scoreless until Stranger stole home on him in the
eighth inning. Naturally that man would be more
than eager to retrieve himself in another struggle
against Locke.</p>
<p>Kennedy was on the steps of the Central House
when Bristol, accompanied by two or three of his
players, came hustling up from the railroad station.</p>
<p>“Hello, Hank!” said old Jack, in a friendly
way. “Glad to see you.”</p>
<p>“Hello!” growled Bristol. “I s’pose you are.
I’d be, if I was in your place. Say, you’ve been
having luck, ain’t yer? You put the jinx on us,
all right. Think of it, being beat by them Boobs!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span>
We’ve got to git back at you to-day, and we’re
goin’ to come blame near doing it, too!”</p>
<p>“That sounds interesting,” returned Kennedy.
“I suppose you’ll pitch Elgin again?”</p>
<p>“Elgin be—hanged!” rasped Bristol.</p>
<p>“Why, what’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“He’s quit.”</p>
<p>“Quit?”</p>
<p>“Yep. That feller was yaller all the way
through. He went to pieces like a stick of dynamite.
Didn’t even wait to collect the few dollars
that was due him. Jumped a train and got
out.”</p>
<p>“Well, he <em>was</em> a quitter,” agreed Kennedy.
“I’m really sorry for you, Hank. It makes a man
sore to be stung in his judgment of a pitcher that
fashion.”</p>
<p>“Don’t seem that you got stung much in that
feller Stranger. Say, who is he, anyhow? You
must ’a’ had him yarded out in the outlaws somewhere,
or back in the bush, with a string on him,
so you could yank him in any time you needed
him.”</p>
<p>“I had him with a string on him, all right,” confessed
Kennedy.</p>
<p>“I thought so. Well, we’re going after him
to-day. He can’t repeat on us. All the boys are
just itching to have another crack at him.”</p>
<p>“You’d better buy some ointment for that itching,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[264]</span>
Hank. I judge they’ll still need it after the
game’s over.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe so,” said Bristol, walking on, “but I
doubt it.”</p>
<p>He was not twenty feet away when a young,
clear-eyed man came hurrying toward Kennedy,
who had turned to call McLaughlin from the hotel.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon, Jack, old man,” called a
familiar voice. “Recognized you a block away.
So this is the way you’re farming, is it?”</p>
<p>Kennedy, whirling sharply, found himself gazing
into the eyes of Jack Stillman, the <cite>Blade</cite> reporter.</p>
<p>“Hello, boy!” he exclaimed, grasping the newspaper
man’s outstretched hand. “What are you
doing here?”</p>
<p>“Hush!” chuckled Stillman, making an extravagant
gesture of caution. “I’m doing a little Sherlock
Holmesing for the <cite>Blade</cite>. I’ve followed a
trail that has led me right here to this town of
Deering.”</p>
<p>“You don’t say!”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I do. I repeat.”</p>
<p>“Who are you after?” Although Kennedy
asked the question, he knew the answer in advance.</p>
<p>“I suppose you’ve been reading the papers right
along?” said Stillman. “Then you’ve seen all
about the railroad smash, and how Lefty Locke
hasn’t been found since that happened.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[265]</span></p>
<p>“I read about it.”</p>
<p>“It was proved that he wasn’t among the killed
or injured, so, of course, he simply improved that
opportunity to fade away. You know, he and
Carson didn’t seem to get along right well together.
Carson favored Grist, and Grist had some
feeling about Locke.”</p>
<p>“I thought I had that pretty near cured before
they took my scalp,” said Kennedy. “Grist was
the veteran with the experience, but he was on the
point of going backward. Locke was the youngster
without experience, but he was coming like a
whirlwind. Both had their supporters, and there
were a few who tried to remain impartial. It affected
the playing of the team, and I was working
hard to restore harmony just when they handed
me mine.”</p>
<p>“Well, there’s not much harmony left now, and
Locke’s gone,” said the reporter. “The Blue
Stockings are getting it right and left, and only for
the fact that the Specters have had a bad streak
they would be out of the running already. The
loss of Locke has put the whole team on the blink.
Take it from me, Charles Collier is getting sore
himself, and there’s liable to be something didding
any day. Meantime, I am trying to locate Lefty
Locke. Where is he, Kennedy?”</p>
<p>“He’ll pitch for me this afternoon,” answered
old Jack.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[266]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLI">CHAPTER XLI<br>
<small>THE MAN WHO KNEW</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">“Calls himself Stranger, does he?” muttered
Jack Stillman, as he watched the
work of Locke from amid the crowd,
having taken pains to keep away from the bench
of the Deers. “Pretends he’s forgotten his right
name or something like that, hey? The whole
business is queer. But he can pitch—he can pitch
as well as he ever could. If the Blue Stockings
had him, with old Jack handling the team, they’d
have the championship nailed already.”</p>
<p>Besides Stillman, another man was an intensely
interested spectator of Lefty Locke’s work on the
mound. It was Doctor Wallace Hetner, of Hatfield,
who, according to his promise to Kennedy,
had come over with the team. As far as possible
during the last few days, Hetner had spent time in
meditating upon Locke’s singular behavior, and
now he watched the man for some sign, some indication
which would denote that he was actually the
victim of a mental disorder.</p>
<p>“He doesn’t look like a sick man,” decided the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[267]</span>
doctor. “He doesn’t show it. But there’s something
decidedly wrong, or he’d not be calling himself
Stranger. I wonder if Kennedy has succeeded
in leading him into a give-away?”</p>
<p>He found the old manager, and called him
from the bench. With the game running all in
favor of the Deers, Kennedy did not hesitate to
answer Doctor Hetner’s call.</p>
<p>“Oh, he’s Lefty Locke, all right,” he said.
“Ain’t no question about that. No, couldn’t make
him admit a thing, but I know what I’m talking
about. Say, there’s another man here in town
who knows him well—a reporter by the name of
Stillman. You two ought to get together and talk
it over. I’ll find Stillman, and introduce you after
the game.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said the doctor.</p>
<p>Despite Bristol’s threat, the Buccaneers could
do nothing with Lefty Locke; but in turn one of
Bristol’s regular pitchers succeeded in holding
the locals down to three hard-earned runs.</p>
<p>Hetner, Stillman, Kennedy, and McLaughlin
held a consultation in a private room of the Central
House after the game was over.</p>
<p>“I haven’t said a word to Lefty yet,” said the
reporter. “I’ve kept away from him. Whatever
his reason for ducking off the map, he’s certainly
keeping himself in A-one pitching trim. I told
Collier I’d find him.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[268]</span></p>
<p>“You told Collier so!” exclaimed Kennedy.
“Didn’t he know where Locke was?”</p>
<p>“No. How would he know?”</p>
<p>“I wired Carson three days ago that I could tell
him where to find his missing southpaw. He answered
that he didn’t want to find him. I supposed
he told Collier about my message.”</p>
<p>“Don’t believe he chirped a word of it,” said the
reporter. “Carson’s making a mess of the management.
The team misses you, Jack—it certainly
does.”</p>
<p>“No bouquets,” protested Kennedy.</p>
<p>“I’m not throwing any; I’m giving it to you
straight. They miss you and Lefty Locke. I’ve
been thinking of something odd. There was a man
killed in that train wreck who passed sometimes
under the name of Bob Stranger. He was a crook
and general confidence man—Pink Kelly—who
had just been released from the pen. For some
time nobody recognized him, so his name was not
given in the first newspaper reports of the identified.
I was the one who finally recognized that
gink. Bob Stranger! Locke calls himself that?”</p>
<p>“That’s what he does,” replied Kennedy.</p>
<p>The reporter struck the fist of his right hand
into his open left palm.</p>
<p>“I’ll bet you a thousand dollars,” he cried,
“that Locke and that crook were talking together
before the smash came. That smash must have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[269]</span>
knocked everything out of Locke’s head. He’d
been going a bit wrong for some time before that,
and that might be the very thing to put him all to
the bad. Why, do you know, some of the fellows
even thought he’d taken to drinking. I’ve an idea
I really know what’s at the bottom of the whole
trouble.”</p>
<p>“Then you’ll be mighty valuable in straightening
this mess out,” said Kennedy. “What was at
the bottom of it?”</p>
<p>Stillman then told them of Lefty’s deep interest
in Janet Harting, and explained how the misunderstanding
between them had been caused by
Locke’s innocent attentions to the daughter of the
new owner of the Blue Stockings.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Doctor Hetner
excitedly. “I think I can see a method of
straightening the man out and bringing back his
memory. If I had a picture of that girl—the one
he’s really struck on—”</p>
<p>“I’ve got it,” laughed the reporter. “Say, I
scented a corking old news story in this affair, and
so I just took care to get Miss Janet Harting’s
photograph, as well as one of Miss Virginia
Collier. By the way, there’s a fourth party mixed
up in the business—a young man by the name of
Franklin Parlmee. It seems that he had a case
on Collier’s daughter, and they quarreled. It
didn’t seem to shake her much, but he was raw as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[270]</span>
a flea-bitten pup, and he didn’t lose an opportunity
to soak Locke to old man Collier.”</p>
<p>“Something of a romance, I declare!” said Doctor
Hetner. “You say you have Miss Harting’s
photograph? Have you brought it with you?”</p>
<p>“Sure!”</p>
<p>“Will you let me have it?”</p>
<p>“You bet, if you’ll return it. I wouldn’t lose
it for anything. If I write the story—”</p>
<p>“It’s an interesting story,” said the doctor,
“and I suppose you’ll write it, anyhow, being a
reporter.”</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[271]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII<br>
<small>FAILURE</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Kennedy found Locke, and brought him
to that room, where the young southpaw
was met by Stillman, while the doctor and
landlord looked on.</p>
<p>“Of course you remember me,” said the reporter,
wringing Locke’s unresponsive hand.
“You know how I got the proof on Elgin, and
showed him up to Brennan. I knew you’d make
good in the Big League, and I never lost a chance
to say so.”</p>
<p>“It’s mighty good of you to talk like this,” returned
Locke, “but you wouldn’t if you knew how
you confuse me. If I’m the man you think me to
be, how is it I only remember that my name is
Robert Stranger, and that on account of my
health I came out into the country to get a job
on a farm?”</p>
<p>“Pink Kelly, a card sharp, crook, and con man,
was talking to you just before that railroad smash-up.
Sometimes Kelly went by the name of Bob
Stranger. He was killed, but you seemed to escape
without as much as a scratch.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[272]</span></p>
<p>“I don’t remember it,” persisted Locke, shaking
his head. “If I wasn’t hurt in that smash-up,
what made me so twisted? For I’m twisted,
or you are, every one of you.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” said Doctor Hetner, “the railroad
smash simply completed what was gradually taking
place before that. I saw you on that smoking
car. I spoke to you, but you didn’t recognize me.
I thought you were lying. Now I’m inclined to believe
you were honest.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” said Lefty, on whose forehead
little beads of perspiration were standing thickly.
“It’s a rotten thing for a man to get twisted the
way I am. I’ve tried to remember, but the more I
try the less I can recall.”</p>
<p>“There are reasons,” said the doctor, “why you
should strive to recall the past.”</p>
<p>“The principal reason,” said the reporter, “is
Miss Janet Harting. Don’t you remember her,
Lefty?”</p>
<p>Locke brushed his hand almost fiercely across
his forehead. “No,” he answered, “I don’t remember
her.”</p>
<p>“I have a notion,” said Stillman, “that you are
engaged to her, though there was a quarrel or
something of the sort, brought about by your being
seen with Virginia Collier—old man Collier’s
swell daughter. I don’t know just how it came
round, but Miss Harting failed to accept your explanations,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[273]</span>
if you made any. That broke you up.
Now can’t you remember?”</p>
<p>“No, not a single thing!” answered Lefty, in
deep distress. “It’s all as if it never happened
to me.”</p>
<p>“If you saw the girl!” cried Stillman. “Doctor,
where’s that photograph you took from me?”</p>
<p>“Here it is,” said Hetner, handing it over.</p>
<p>The reporter placed it in the hands of Locke,
who gazed long and hard at the pictured likeness
of one who had seemed to him the most beautiful
of all girls.</p>
<p>“It’s no use,” he declared, after some minutes
of tense and breathless silence. “If I ever saw
her, I have no recollection of it, and therefore I
might as well never have seen her. It drives me
desperate, trying to remember, and I must stop—”</p>
<p>“That’s right,” said Doctor Hetner, who had
been watching him closely. “It will do no good,
this straining after what your mind refuses to recall.
When it comes, if it does, it will come easily
and suddenly, when you’re not trying to break
down the wall that shuts you off from the past.
Some day you’ll shake the identity and the name
of the dead man, and become yourself again; and
it’s both dangerous and useless to make further
efforts until your mind is in condition to grasp the
truth and revive the past.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[274]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII<br>
<small>THE COME-BACK</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Jack Stillman went in search of Janet
Harting, while Lefty remained pitching
for Jack Kennedy under the name of
Stranger. As a mascot and a winning pitcher, he
proved to be such a success that, with the close of
the season a week away, the Deers were entrenched
in first position beyond any possibility
of dislodgment.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the Blue Stockings were being battered,
and their lead cut down, until even old Pete
Grist lost heart, and bewailed the missing southpaw.</p>
<p>“Another week,” he groaned; “another week,
and we’ve got to win four games out of six to
home, with no pitchers. If we get two of them
games we’ll do well. If we had Locke in trim we
could take them. I’ll agree to win my share. Carson
has failed, and the old man’s sore. After all,
Kennedy was the best manager the Blue Stockings
ever had.”</p>
<p>To make matters worse, Carson and Collier
quarreled violently.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[275]</span></p>
<p>About this time Stillman, whose place had been
filled by a cub for nearly two weeks, came back,
and interviewed Charles Collier. Although the
reporter had made his business a secret affair,
more than one of the Blue Stockings guessed that
he was searching for Lefty Locke. Daily the
<cite>Blade</cite> was scanned for some word which would indicate
that the clever reporter-detective had made
progress in this search, and daily those in looking
for that word were disappointed. Stillman was
taking the chance of being scooped in order to
spring a big sensation at the most dramatic moment.
He did not even dare tell his editor what he
had learned.</p>
<p>The almost hopeless fight of the Blue Stockings
aroused the sympathy of the fans, even while the
management of Al Carson was bitterly criticised,
and also the judgment of Charles Collier in letting
old Jack Kennedy go in order to fill his place with
a man like Carson.</p>
<p>Pete Grist had made good by winning two games
of the last six. He even saved another game when
three of the battered pitchers had been pounded
out of the box. Then followed two defeats, and
upon the day before the final and deciding game
was to be played Stillman sprang his sensation in
the <cite>Blade</cite>.</p>
<p>He announced that Carson had been permanently
shelved by the owner of the Blue Stockings,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[276]</span>
who had sent a distress call to the old manager,
Jack Kennedy, receiving in reply the assurance
that Kennedy would be on hand early in the morning,
and would bring with him a cracking portside
pitcher by the name of Stranger, who had been doing
marvelous work out in the bushes.</p>
<p>Stillman wrote, in conclusion:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I’ve seen this Stranger pitch, and, believe me, he’s able to
deliver the goods. He’s the equal of Lefty Locke when Locke
was at his best. If Stranger can pitch a winning game for
the Stockings to-morrow, the championship is ours after all,
and old Jack Kennedy will have saved the day at the last
moment.</p>
</div>
<p>Forty-eight hours before this article appeared
in print, Lefty Locke, pitching for the Deers, had,
while batting in the ninth inning, been hit full and
fair on the head by a pitched ball delivered with all
the speed the man on the slab could command.</p>
<p>Locke sank to the ground without as much as a
gasp. In a moment he was surrounded by a number
of his teammates. Kennedy lifted the stunned
man’s head, calling sharply for water.</p>
<p>“He ought to have a doctor,” said someone.
“Perhaps his skull is fractured.”</p>
<p>“I don’t need a doctor,” declared Locke, suddenly
sitting up. “I’m all right. A little tap like
that never hurt anybody. Donovan hasn’t got
much speed to-day.”</p>
<p>“Donovan!” exclaimed Kennedy. “Why,
that’s Colfax pitching.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277"></a>[277]</span></p>
<p>Locke looked at the old manager queerly. “Colfax?”
he muttered. “Who’s Colfax! Never
heard of him. The Specters are ahead, aren’t
they?”</p>
<p>“Where do you think you are?” choked Kennedy,
his excitement growing. “You’re playing
the Semour Stars, out in the bush. You’re pitching
for the Deers, of Deering.”</p>
<p>It was Locke’s turn to appear bewildered. “I
don’t think I get you right,” he muttered blankly.
“What are you doing here, anyhow? Carson is
managing the team now.”</p>
<p>“Not this team, he ain’t,” retorted old Jack.
“Look here, Lefty, has that bump on your bean
put you right again? Who are you? What’s
your name?”</p>
<p>“Why, my name is Hazelton, though I’m playing
the game as Tom Locke. What a blame fool question,
Kennedy!”</p>
<p>The old manager showed his satisfaction, and
did a dance which caused the crowd to stare at
him in wonderment.</p>
<p>“You’re all right now, Lefty, old boy! You’ve
got your noddle cleared up by that bean ball. I’ll
bet you got one on the koko some other time, and
that was what started you wrong to begin
with.”</p>
<p>“Wrong? What do you mean? How wrong?”
asked Locke, gazing around in surprise at his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278"></a>[278]</span>
strange and unfamiliar surroundings. “What am
I doing here?”</p>
<p>“Playing baseball. I told you a minute ago.
You’re Bob Stranger. Anyhow, that’s what you
called yourself when you came to me, and you
swore you didn’t know how to pitch and had never
seen a game of ball.”</p>
<p>“Jack, you’re stringing me. I don’t remember
how I got here, but—”</p>
<p>“Play ball!” cried the umpire. “Shall we give
you a runner, Stranger, or will you stick in the
game?”</p>
<p>“If you’re speaking to me,” returned Locke,
“I’ll stick in the game. That tap on the head
didn’t jar me a bit.”</p>
<p>In proof of which, after jogging down to first,
he stole second on the first ball pitched to the next
batter, and came home with the winning run when
a right-field single followed.</p>
<p>That night Kennedy did his best to explain
everything to the satisfaction of Locke.</p>
<p>“I wonder what the team thinks of me?” murmured
Lefty. “They must figure that I’m just
about as yellow as Bert Elgin himself. I wouldn’t
quit because I was suspended—not in my right
mind, anyhow. I don’t blame Carson for being
raw and letting me go.”</p>
<p>Kennedy pulled a yellow envelope from his
pocket, and produced the message it contained.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279"></a>[279]</span>
“Carson’s done with the Blue Stockings, anyhow,”
he said. “Here’s a wire from Collier, asking me
to come back and take the management of the team.
I can get there just in time for the last game. If
we win that game we get the pennant. What do
you say, Lefty? Will you pitch it?”</p>
<p>“Will I!” cried Locke. “All I want is the
chance!”</p>
<p>“It’s yours,” declared Kennedy. “You’ll
pitch, son.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280"></a>[280]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV<br>
<small>BACK TO HIS OWN</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Not once in a thousand times does such a
remarkable situation arise in Big League
baseball. Not once in a thousand times
would it happen that the two leading teams should
be scheduled to play off the last three games of the
season together, and have the championship depend
upon the result of the final game, which would
leave one or the other of those teams in the lead by
a very small percentage.</p>
<p>To down the Blue Stockings the Specters had to
win three straight, and when they had taken the
first two the entire baseball world was thrown into
a great tumult of excitement, to say nothing of
the home city of the Blue Stockings. That city
was in a perfect panic, so that business generally
was tremendously effected, and all one could hear
talked anywhere he went was baseball, baseball,
baseball.</p>
<p>The newspapers were crammed with it. They
were almost savage in their denouncement of the
new owner and his judgment in displacing Jack
Kennedy and filling the position with a manager<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281"></a>[281]</span>
like Al Carson. Half of them prophesied that the
Specters would take the last three straight, and
cop the pennant without difficulty. A few held
desperately to the tattered border of hope, begging
the Blue Stockings to brace up and save the day
by winning the final game.</p>
<p>But even as they did this, they confessed that the
team’s staff of pitchers was all to the bad, with
no one in condition save old Pete Grist, who had
already won two games out of the double series
of the final week, and was therefore unable to
attempt to pitch another game.</p>
<p>On the other hand, the Specters had Donovan in
reserve, and during the season Donovan had made
a record scarcely second to any Big League
pitcher. The baseball “dope” in the papers was
certainly interesting enough to a genuine
fan, though it must have seemed maddening to
a reader who cared nothing whatever for the
game.</p>
<p>Then came the sensation sprung by Stillman in
the <cite>Blade</cite>. It made readers generally sit up and
take notice. The other newspapers had been
“scooped.” Stillman’s sense of the dramatic and
his judgment regarding the psychological moment
had stood him and his paper in good stead.</p>
<p>And when, just as the game was beginning the
following day, the <cite>Blade</cite> appeared with the statement
that the pitcher called Stranger, whom Kennedy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282"></a>[282]</span>
had brought with him, was none other than
Lefty Locke himself, following with a most cleverly
written explanation of the cause of Lefty’s
vanishing, a complete account of his chance meeting
with Kennedy, and how he had pitched in the
bush league, winning the championship for the
Deers, the scoop was complete.</p>
<p>Never in the history of the game in that city had
such a crowd swarmed to the ball park. At daylight
a dozen or more tired, sleepy-looking men
and boys were seen in line at the bleacher gates,
waiting in order that they might be the first to gain
admittance and so secure favorable positions. Before
eleven o’clock in the forenoon two or three
hundred people were waiting at those gates, and
the steady influx began when the gates were finally
opened ahead of time at twelve-thirty.</p>
<p>Fortunately the police department was on the
job, and the crowds were handled beautifully outside
the grounds. On the field, at least forty
policemen found themselves busy when at last the
stands and bleachers overflowed, and the people
began to swarm into the field back of the ropes,
which had been stretched in anticipation of this
very occurrence.</p>
<p>It was, however, a remarkably tractable crowd.
Even those who had bought seats in the stand and
found those seats occupied, as well as the bleachers
packed—being compelled, therefore, to stand<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span>
in the jam back of the ropes—were good-natured,
few complaining.</p>
<p>This was the day—the great day! Jack Kennedy
had come back, and brought with him Lefty
Locke. They were waiting for Kennedy and Locke
to appear, and as they waited they choked down
and held back the cheer which welled from their
rejoicing hearts. Presently from the clubhouse
the Specters came pushing through the gathering
mass of people, and burst upon the field. They
were given an ovation by their admirers.</p>
<p>Two minutes later there was a tremendous stir
all through the stands, running over the bleachers
and into the group of standees. Escorted by six
policemen, Kennedy and Locke were coming, with
the Blue Stocking players at their heels. Other
policemen fought the crowd back, and made a lane
for them to pass through.</p>
<p>And when they debouched from that lane upon
the open space of the field inside the ropes, it
seemed that every human being upon the bleachers
and in the stands had risen and was howling like a
maniac. Such a solid roar, such a tremendous
burst of sound coming from human throats, perhaps
never was heard save at some gladiatorial
contest in the Roman Colosseum. It beat and
reverberated upon the eardrums with painful
fierceness, causing more than one person to protect
himself from the staggering effect of it by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span>
clapping his hands over his ears. And it continued
while old Jack, bareheaded, with Lefty
Locke at his side, marched from the ropes to the
bench, his face pale, his eyes shining, his lips smiling.</p>
<p>“They’re glad to get you back, Jack,” shouted
Lefty in the old man’s ear.</p>
<p>“You blame fool!” yelled Kennedy in return.
“They’re not cheering for me. It’s you, boy—you,
the man who’s going to give the Blue Stockings
another pennant. Pull off your cap—pull it
off! Bow! Bow!”</p>
<p>For a moment there was a blur over Lefty’s
eyes. Through it he could dimly see the wildly
tumultuous mass in the stands and on the
bleachers. Mechanically he lifted his hand—his
left hand—and touched his cap. And when he did
so the great roar suddenly was intensified for an
instant, although it had previously seemed that
every person present was shouting as loudly as he
could.</p>
<p>When Locke had reached the shelter of the covered
bench, into which he dived for a few moments
as one seeking to escape a deadly hail of bullets,
he laughed again—queerly, incredulously.</p>
<p>“It can’t be for me,” he muttered. “Why, I’m—I’m
only a cub yet—nothing but a busher.”</p>
<p>Kennedy was at his side. “You’ll show whether
you’re a busher or a Big League pitcher to-day,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span>
Lefty,” he said. “If you let this reception get
your goat, then your name is Mud. But if you
can go out there and pitch a winning game, nobody
in fast company has got it on you.”</p>
<p>“Give me two minutes,” said Locke, gripping
himself; “give me two minutes, and I’ll show
you.”</p>
<p>“Good boy!” said old Jack. “Come out and
warm up when you get ready.”</p>
<p>He left Locke there, and went forth among his
men, all of whom had greeted him on his return
as rejoicing children might greet a beloved parent;
and every one of whom had shaken the hand
of Lefty Locke until Lefty’s arm seemed ready to
come off. Not even Pete Grist had held back.
Far from it. Old Pete was among the first to
strike palms with the southpaw.</p>
<p>“The prodigal son!” he cried. “The prodigal
son back home! Welcome to our midst, Lefty.
We’re going to let you kill the fatted calf this
afternoon—the Specters, you know.”</p>
<p>“That’s kind of you, Grist, old man,” said
Locke. “I’ve brought my little butcher knife
with me, and I’m going to sink it to the hilt if I
can.”</p>
<p>As old Jack came out again from beneath the
bench roof, here and there friends in the crowd
shouted at him, but now he seemed deaf to all this
as he went at work amid his men, directing them<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span>
as of old, keeping them on the jump, filling them
with inspiration and confidence.</p>
<p>“Hey, Jack! You’re the old man to do it!”</p>
<p>“Kennedy, you can deliver the goods! You
did it once, and you will again.”</p>
<p>“Welcome to our city, Mr. Kennedy! We have
missed you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, say, Jack, old boy, you look good to me!”</p>
<p>But these cries were faint compared with the
renewed chorus of shouts which arose when Lefty
Locke, flushed, yet steady and self-possessed,
again stepped forth into view.</p>
<p>“Oh, you Lefty! Oh, you southpaw!”</p>
<p>“You’re the kiddo! You’re the Specter slayer!”</p>
<p>“How’s your wing, Lefty?”</p>
<p>“Got your batting eye with you?”</p>
<p>“Lefty, don’t you dare ever leave us again.
You’re home with your own family now.”</p>
<p>Kennedy, glancing sidewise at Locke, to notice
the effect of this revived demonstration, was well
satisfied. Not by a flicker did the southpaw betray
the emotion of satisfaction with which his
heart must have been filled. He was steady as
Gibraltar, and cool as polar ice.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV<br>
<small>THE GIRLS IN THE BOX</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Still with a view to the dramatic, Stillman
had planned something else. It
was with the greatest difficulty that he had
succeeded in keeping Lefty Locke and Janet Harting
apart, for Janet was in the city, the guest of
Virginia Collier. And when Lefty reappeared
on that field and received that marvelous ovation,
Janet sat in the owner’s box with Virginia, her
gloved hands clasped with a fierceness that nearly
burst the kid, her face by turns pale and flushed.</p>
<p>All the way across the diamond her eyes followed
that splendid figure—the figure of the man
she loved. The Niagaralike roaring of the crowd
she was conscious of in a vague way, and it
thrilled her; and it seemed that she must draw his
gaze by her intense effort to do so. When he
suddenly dove to the shelter of the bench, she relaxed,
with a little sigh of disappointment.</p>
<p>Then for the first time she felt the arm of Virginia
Collier about her. She heard Virginia’s
voice in her ear:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span></p>
<p>“Wasn’t it splendid? Did you ever know anyone
to get such an ovation?”</p>
<p>“Never,” answered Janet, “but he didn’t
look—”</p>
<p>“He will look,” assured Miss Collier. “Leave
that to Jack Stillman.”</p>
<p>“I owe a great deal to Mr. Stillman.”</p>
<p>“So do I,” said Virginia, glancing over her
shoulder at Franklin Parlmee. “Only for Mr.
Stillman, we might all be playing at cross-purposes
now. There he is. He’s speaking to
Lefty.”</p>
<p>Stillman had been pretty busy at his telegraph
key, for he was one reporter who could do his own
sending, and the events of the last few moments
had caused him to sweat as he pounded out the
Morse. He was athrill with the joy of it, like a
stage manager who has planned a tremendous
performance and seen it carried through successfully
at the opening, and the crowd going wild
over it.</p>
<p>“Lefty!” he called; and Locke, passing, turned
at the sound of the familiar voice.</p>
<p>“Hello, Jack!” he returned.</p>
<p>“There’s someone looking for you over in the
manager’s box,” said Stillman.</p>
<p>As if he suddenly realized who it was, Locke
whirled like a flash and started in that direction
with long, swinging strides. His bronzed face<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span>
was flushed. Never had he looked handsomer
than he did while Janet watched him drawing
near.</p>
<p>“You—you, Janet!” he cried, heedless of everyone.
“I tried to find you, but you were gone.
I couldn’t explain. Let me explain now.”</p>
<p>“Hush, Phil!” she cautioned, pressing the
gloved fingers of one hand to her lips, while,
watched by thousands of eyes, she permitted him
to hold the other hand. “You don’t have to explain.
Miss Collier has explained everything,
and I wish to ask your pardon for—”</p>
<p>“Don’t!” he entreated. “How could you
know? It must have seemed beastly of me. I
told you I was going to the theater with some fellows
from the team, and you saw me there
with—”</p>
<p>“Hasn’t Janet told you that everything has
been explained, Mr. Hazelton?” cut in Virginia
Collier. “Of course, I didn’t know about her,
and just then I was somewhat peeved with Franklin.
Oh, I think you’ve met Mr. Parlmee, haven’t
you?”</p>
<p>“Sure, we’ve met,” said Parlmee, putting forth
a hand, which finally led Lefty reluctantly to release
the gloved fingers of Janet. “How are you,
Locke, old chap? If I was a bit rude when we
were introduced, perhaps you’ll pardon me now,
understanding the reason.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span></p>
<p>“Everybody seems eager to beg everybody’s
pardon,” laughed Virginia Collier. “I wonder where
father is? I know he was on hand to see
you and Jack Kennedy when—”</p>
<p>“He was in the clubhouse,” said Lefty. “I’ve
seen him.”</p>
<p>“Do you think you can win the game to-day?”
asked Janet, apparently with a touch of anxiety.</p>
<p>“What do <em>you</em> think?” he questioned.</p>
<p>“I’m sure you can.”</p>
<p>“Then I’ll win it, Janet, if there’s any pitching
left in my old south wing.”</p>
<p>“You’ll have to pitch,” said Parlmee.
“They’ve been saving Donovan up for this
game. They want it as bad as we do.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps so,” said Locke; “but we’ve got to
have it.”</p>
<p>Somehow, there was no touch of boasting in his
manner, nor did there seem to be anything of the
sort in his words. He was confident of himself,
and his confidence had been redoubled by Janet’s
assurance that she knew he would win.</p>
<p>“When the game is over,” said Miss Collier,
“you’ll find us waiting outside the clubhouse with
the automobile. You’ll join us, won’t you?”</p>
<p>Only for a fraction of a minute did Lefty hesitate.
“The others—the boys,” he faltered. “If
we win, they will—”</p>
<p>“They’ll forgive you for deserting them this<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span>
time, I’m sure,” she said quickly. “It only happens
once in a lifetime, you know—and Janet
will be there.”</p>
<p>“So will I,” he promised instantly.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI<br>
<small>THE GAME OF HIS LIFE</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="cap">Never in his life had Lefty Locke pitched
such a game of baseball. Never had that
great crowd seen such splendid work upon
the mound. Again master of himself in every
respect, thrilled with life and vigor from toes to
finger tips, the amazing southpaw of the Blue
Stockings fought every inch of the way as if life
and honor depended upon it.</p>
<p>He knew <em>she</em> was watching him. He could feel
her eyes upon him; yet they did not distract him
from the task to which he had set his hand, his
brain, his very soul. Instead, they were his inspiration,
making him as unfathomable to those
desperately waiting Specter batters as would have
been Mathewson at his best.</p>
<p>In the whirl and thrill of the conflict, once or
twice he thought of how a ball pitched by Donovan,
his present opponent, glancing from his bat,
had seemingly done him little damage, although
it struck him squarely in the head; how that blow
had presently brought about the entire loss of his
own identity and the assumption of the name and,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span>
in some respects, the identity of another man
killed at his side in the railroad smash. Vaguely
he could now remember fighting to recall the truth
concerning himself, while his mind remained an
absolute blank as to the past. And the agony of
his struggles caused him to shudder.</p>
<p>But it was glorious to know that he was again
restored to reason and to his normal condition.
The shadow was gone from his mind—gone, he
believed, never to return.</p>
<p>And all the other shadows had been dispelled
in the meanwhile. Janet was yonder in the box,
trusting him, believing in him, sorry she had ever
doubted.</p>
<p>And so, while Jack Kennedy hugged himself on
the bench, while Charles Collier gazed and marveled,
while the great crowd cheered itself mad
again and again, he cut the Specters down one
after another as they faced him. Behind him
his teammates waited, ready to give him their
best support. Three times this great support prevented
a Specter from getting a hit.</p>
<p>And Donovan, also pitching the game of his career,
twice pulled himself out of bad holes, and
kept the Blue Stockings from scoring. Once he
wabbled and it seemed that he was gone, but his
manager made no move, and in time he rose to the
emergency and saved himself.</p>
<p>So the game continued, inning after inning,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span>
with neither side getting a tally, with not a single
Specter reaching first; for thus far Lefty was
pitching a no-hit, no-run game. To-morrow the
newspapers would be full of it, and the name of
Tom Locke would be chiseled forever on the baseball
tablet of fame.</p>
<p>No man present was happier than old Jack
Kennedy, for he was the manager whose judgment
had brought this young busher to the front
and given him the opportunity through which in
a single season he had risen higher than any bush-league
pitcher ever rose before.</p>
<p>“He’s my boy—my boy!” Kennedy whispered
again and again as Lefty cut the Specters down
with his burning speed, his bewildering change
of pace, and his unhittable hook drop, delivered
always when least expected. “I found him. I
put him into the game after Brennan kicked him
out. I thought I was done with baseball, but I’m
back to die in harness, unless I’m fired again.”</p>
<p>Without a single exception, Lefty’s teammates
were elated. Yes, it is true that even the veteran,
old Pete Grist, was supremely happy as
he watched Locke work. If for an instant a pang
of jealousy entered his heart, he thrust it out as
one would thrust forth the devil himself.</p>
<p>And Lefty’s chums, Billy Orth, Laughing
Larry, and Dirk Nelson, rejoiced unspeakably.
All through the game Dalton laughed as of old,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>[295]</span>
while behind the pan Nelson crouched and signaled,
sure that never once would Lefty fail to
throw the curve called for and put it where he desired
without the variation of an inch. Such control,
such smoke, such headwork, Nelson had never
before seen a pitcher display; and he afterward
made the statement, regardless of the feelings of
other twirlers who had worked with him.</p>
<p>From the opening of the game till the last man
was down, the Specters strove like fiends to get
Lefty’s goat; but all their sneers, their tricks, and
their baiting proved ineffectual. Apparently he
was deaf, dumb, and blind to everything save the
task in hand. The wild cheering of the tremendous
crowd as he swept down batter after batter
seemed to affect him no more than profound silence—perhaps
not as much.</p>
<p>One, two, three, four, five innings—not a hit off
Locke! Six, seven, eight innings—not a hit; not
a man had reached first base!</p>
<p>“Shut ’em out!” pleaded the crowd. “Don’t
let ’em touch you to-day, Lefty! You’ve got ’em
killed!”</p>
<p>Then in turn, when the Blue Stockings were at
bat, that immense throng begged them to fall on
Donovan and get a run.</p>
<p>“One run will do it!” yelled an urchin with a
voice like a calliope. “Dat’s all you want, fellers.
It wins dis game.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>[296]</span></p>
<p>One run! Donovan himself felt that it would
be enough. Perspiration standing forth from every
pore, his teeth set like the jaws of a vise, his
eyes blazing, he whipped the ball across the corners.
One run! Was he going to let this left-handed
cub outpitch him in the struggle which
would give the winning team the championship?
Not if he ruined his arm then and there!</p>
<p>Then came the eighth inning, and again the
strain of the terrible pace told on Donovan. The
first man up got a safety, and the next hitter, directed
by Kennedy, sacrificed him to second.
With one down, it was Jack Daly’s turn to bat,
and Donovan laughed; for he had Jack’s alley,
and knew he could keep him from hitting.</p>
<p>But at this moment Kennedy suddenly came
forth from the bench, bearing a bat. Kennedy,
the old stager, the veteran, was going in as a pinch
hitter.</p>
<p>Donovan laughed. “He’s easier,” he thought.
“Why don’t he send out Burchard?”</p>
<p>Burchard was the Blue Stockings’ greatest batter,
kept on the bench for just such emergencies
as this; and a thousand others wondered that Kennedy
should throw himself into the breach with
big Burchard waiting and ready.</p>
<p>But Kennedy was inspired. He had been
watching Donovan’s work from the beginning of
the game, and he believed he could find the man<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>[297]</span>
for a safety. As he walked to the plate, he gave
the runner a signal which told him to be on his
toes and ready to go when the ball was hit.</p>
<p>Two balls Donovan pitched to Kennedy without
finding the plate, and then he put one over.
Old Jack let it pass, and heard a strike called.
Donovan laughed at him, and Kennedy smiled
back serenely.</p>
<p>“Give me another just like that, Jim,” he invited.
“I’ll hit the next one.”</p>
<p>“All right,” returned the pitcher; “all right,
Jack, old back number. Here you have it.”</p>
<p>Kennedy knew Donovan was lying. He knew
the man would pitch something entirely different,
and perhaps wholly unexpected, but some inspiration
told him just what it would be; and when
Donovan put it across the inside corner, Kennedy
fell back and met it on the trade-mark.</p>
<p>It was a line drive into left. The runner on
second tore across third and stretched himself
for the plate, while the fielder made a great throw
to the pan to stop the score.</p>
<p>At the plate, Dillingham, the catcher, took that
throw and jabbed the ball at the sliding runner,
but nine men out of ten in the crowd saw that the
prostrate man’s foot was on the rubber when Dillingham
tagged him, and the outspread hands of
the umpire declaring him safe was the only manner
in which the decision reached them; for it seemed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>[298]</span>
that thirty thousand maniacs filled the stands,
the bleachers, and the outfield.</p>
<p>Donovan, shaking visibly, and pale as a sheet,
braced himself hard while that uproar pounded
upon his ears. The game was lost, and he knew
it. Between them, Lefty Locke and old Jack Kennedy
had won it.</p>
<p>It made little difference that, having apparently
regained his control, Donovan grinned hard at
Lefty when the latter came to bat, and told him
he could not hit the ball. Calmly the young southpaw
replied:</p>
<p>“I don’t have to hit it, Jim; the damage is
done.”</p>
<p>It made no difference that Donovan struck
Locke out. The Blue Stockings had scored, and
when Lefty returned to the mound and the Specters
faced him in the ninth, he mowed the last
three down one after another, as if they were
schoolboys.</p>
<p>At this moment it seemed that Lefty had triumphed
over all obstacles and conquered every
foe, but, with the approach of the coming season,
he encountered a rival pitcher far more persistent
and dangerous than Bert Elgin; a strange
and unfathomable character who changed, almost
in the flash of an eye, from open-hearted friendship
to deadly and vindictive enmity, and as
quickly and unexpectedly changed back again; a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>[299]</span>
person enshrouded in mystery, and seemingly the
possessor of a dual nature that made him a veritable
<em>Jekyll and Hyde</em>. The book in which this
character, Nelson Savage, appears, is the fourth
volume of the Big League Series, and it bears the
title of “Lefty o’ the Training Camp.”</p>
<p>Had he attempted to reach the clubhouse by
crossing the field, Lefty could not have escaped
the clutches of the madly exultant crowd. They
waited for him, but discreetly, with old Jack Kennedy
at his side, he ducked into a runway and disappeared
beneath the stand even while the great
throng was still cheering, and shrieking his name.</p>
<p>“Well, some game to-day, kid, eh?” laughed
old Jack, giving him a clap on the shoulder.
“Some game, hey? I guess we’re back in it.”</p>
<p>“I guess we are,” said Lefty. “If you don’t
mind, I’m going to dust away as soon as I can get
a shower and change my clothes. There’ll be
someone waiting for me outside the gate.”</p>
<p>“Go on, old man,” returned the veteran manager.
“I don’t blame you a bit. She’s a dream.”</p>
<p class="p4 noic">THE END</p>
<hr class="chap">
<div class="tnote">
<p class="noi tntitle">Transcriber’s Notes:</p>
<p class="smfont">Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.</p>
<p class="smfont">Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.</p>
<p class="smfont">Inconsistent hyphenation and compound words were made
consistent only when a predominant form was found.</p>
</div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76584 ***</div>
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