LEFTY O’ THE BIG LEAGUE
[Illustration: HE WAS SAYING TO HIMSELF: “ONE MORE! ONLY ONE MORE! I
MUST GET HIM――I’VE GOT TO!”]
LEFTY
O’ THE BIG LEAGUE
BY
BURT L. STANDISH
Author of “Lefty o’ the Bush,” “Lefty o’ the Blue
Stockings,” “Lefty o’ the Training Camp.”
_ILLUSTRATED_
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I GETTING IN BAD 11
II A CALL-DOWN FROM THE MANAGER 17
III THE RIOT AT THE THEATER 24
IV ONE AGAINST SCORES 31
V FRIENDLY BUCK FARGO 36
VI WHO WAS TO BLAME? 42
VII WITHOUT GRATITUDE 48
VIII THE MAN WHO KNEW 56
IX SOMETHING SUB-ROSA 63
X “WHEN THE CAT’S AWAY” 70
XI ALL IN 77
XII LEFTY’S FAILURE 82
XIII THE DISCHARGED WAITER 89
XIV BERT ELGIN’S LUCK 97
XV THE REASON WHY 103
XVI THE PURLOINED LETTER 108
XVII GUILE 114
XVIII THE MAN IN THE CORRIDOR 120
XIX NOT QUITE PROVEN 125
XX JANET HARTING WONDERS 131
XXI THE YELLOW STREAK 139
XXII LEFTY’S CHANCE COMES 147
XXIII THERE’S MANY A SLIP 152
XXIV THE UNEXPECTED 158
XXV THE STRUGGLE 167
XXVI GAINING GROUND 174
XXVII A CHANCE TO MAKE GOOD 181
XXVIII A BAD BEGINNING 186
XXIX TAKING A BRACE 193
XXX THE TRICKY TWIRLER 198
XXXI ONCE TOO OFTEN 206
XXXII THE SPIKING OF SCHAEFFER 213
XXXIII THE TELEGRAM 219
XXXIV NOTHING ELSE POSSIBLE 225
XXXV FOR WANT OF A LIE 231
XXXVI DROPPED OUT OF SIGHT 240
XXXVII OPENING THE SEASON 245
XXXVIII THE TWO MANAGERS 250
XXXIX THE MEETING IN THE GRANDSTAND 254
XL THE SURPRISE 263
XLI THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME 270
XLII THE TRUTH AT LAST 279
XLIII THE LUCKY SEVENTH 285
XLIV THE LEADING RUN 294
XLV LEFTY’S TRIUMPH 299
XLVI HOW IT ALL HAPPENED 305
LEFTY O’ THE BIG LEAGUE
CHAPTER I
GETTING IN BAD
“Say, fellows!” sang out Red Pollock, the snappy little shortstop of
the famous Hornets. “Look who’s here!” There was a general turning of
heads and craning of necks on the part of three or four players waiting
their chance to wield the willow in batting practice.
“Another Yannigan,” groaned Cy Russell, star pitcher of the
organization. “The woods is full of ’em.”
“He don’t look much to me, neither,” stated big Buck Fargo critically.
“Say, Jim, who is it, an’ where’d you root it out?”
Brennan, the short, stocky, belligerent-looking manager of the Big
League team, did not answer. With his bushy eyebrows drawn down in
a frown over his deep-set eyes, he was staring at the young fellow
threading his way through the groups of players scattered about the
field at all kinds of training work. The stranger wore a soiled and
faded gray uniform, upon the shirt of which was sewn a letter K, and
dangled a worn leather glove by one finger. His cap, pushed back on a
mane of heavy, dark-brown hair, revealed a clean-cut, pleasant face,
dominated by a pair of keen brown eyes, a firm chin, and sensitive
mouth.
As he took in these details Brennan’s scowl deepened and his bulldog
chin protruded dangerously. Catching sight of his face, Pollock grinned
and nudged the man nearest him. “Look at the old man,” he whispered.
“Something doing.”
The stranger came on without a pause, and, a moment or two later,
stopped before the manager. His lips were pressed tightly together, but
otherwise his face was perfectly composed. “I’ve come to report, sir,”
he said quietly.
The manager’s eyes narrowed. Several things had been fretting him all
morning, and his temper was not even at its uncertain best. “Indeed!”
he sneered. “And who are you?”
“Locke――Lefty Locke.”
“Never heard the name before,” retorted Brennan shortly.
For an instant the newcomer seemed taken aback. A faint touch of color
came into his cheeks, and he looked at the manager as if wondering
whether he could possibly be in earnest.
“I――thought――Mr. Toler had written you,” he stammered. “He――said he was
going to.”
Brennan’s eyes flashed. “Well, he didn’t,” he snapped. “Where’d you
come from? What’s your record?”
“I pitched last season with the Kingsbridge team of the Northern
League,” Locke said briefly.
“A twirler!” exclaimed the manager. “Well, I’ll be――” He stopped
abruptly, gulped once or twice, and then asked, in an ominously quiet
voice: “What did you do season before last?”
“Nothing. It was my first year in professional baseball.”
“What!” Brennan’s face turned purple, and his last shreds of
self-restraint vanished. “You pitched one season, an’ got the gall to
expect a job with the Hornets! You expect me to believe that Ed Toler,
the best scout I’ve got, picked you up without saying a word to me
about it――when we’re overrun with pitchers, at that. I don’t want you.
Training was begun ten days ago, an’ I got enough men. You can hike
back to the bush, where you come from. I wasn’t born yesterday, an’
you can’t put one over me like this. Get that?”
As he listened to the tirade, the color flamed into Locke’s face,
and his grip on the leather glove tightened. Then, from the group of
players, who had been interested spectators of the interview, came a
smothered laugh, which seemed to act like a tonic. As he heard it,
Locke’s eyes narrowed and his face hardened.
“You don’t want me?” he repeated, in a steady voice. “You’re willing to
release me from the contract I made with Toler?”
“That’s what I said,” growled Brennan.
“Then I’m free to accept any other offer?”
Something in his tone made the manager prick up his ears, all his
professional instincts aroused. It is one thing to fire a man who isn’t
wanted, but quite another to let him go when another club is after
him. “Offer!” he sneered, with deliberate intent. “I s’pose the Tigers
an’ the Blue Stockings are fair tearing each other’s eyes out as to
which’ll have you.”
Lefty’s lips tightened at the man’s tone. “You guessed right, in a
way,” he retorted. “Twenty-four hours after I pledged with Toler, I had
an offer from the Blue Stockings of a thousand dollars more than your
scout promised me.”
The silence which followed this statement was eloquent. Some one in the
little group near by whistled incredulously. Brennan’s eyes were fixed
intently on the cub pitcher’s face, as if he were trying to make out
whether this was the truth or a magnificent bluff. Accustomed as he was
to judging men, he was forced to admit that the youngster did not look
like a liar.
“And how much was that?” he demanded abruptly.
“Twenty-five hundred.” Already Lefty was sorry for his impulsive
outburst. In a flash he realized that if he had kept his mouth shut he
would have been free in a moment to accept the better offer.
“Humph!” grunted Brennan thoughtfully. If Doyle, of the Blue
Stockings――the Hornets’ most bitter rivals――wanted this kid as bad as
that, there must be something in him, and it would never do to let him
go. Much as he hated backing water, the manager was too shrewd a man
to allow personal feelings to influence his professional judgment. He
scowled deeply, bit his lips, and then snapped sourly:
“Well, seeing as you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.
Trot out there and take that fellow’s place; I can use him somewhere
else. Toss a few straight, easy ones over the plate. Stir your stumps
now,” he went on, turning fiercely on the astonished group near by.
“You boys get busy. We’ve wasted too much time. We’ll stop this general
shillalah swinging, and take the field in regular positions. Every one
of you run your hits out. You need the exercise.”
Without a word, Lefty turned, and made his way toward the cub pitcher,
who had been shuffling around near the slab waiting for the altercation
to end. He had been extremely foolish not to keep his face shut, but
there was nothing to be gained by repining over the past.
An instant later, as his eyes met those of the man he was replacing,
he started slightly, and a look of dazed surprise flashed into his
face. It vanished swiftly, but as he reached the fellow his lips were
compressed, his eyes hard and cold.
“Hello, Elgin,” he said stiffly.
The other, his face black as a thunder cloud, growled out an
unintelligible monosyllable, thrust the ball into Locke’s hand, and
walked hurriedly away, leaving the latter to stare after him with an
expression which told, as well as spoken words could have done, how
unpleasant and distasteful the encounter was to him.