SOMETHING SUB-ROSA
“Five-inning practice game at eight-thirty sharp,” announced Manager
Brennan, at the close of the day’s work.
Instantly every tongue stopped wagging, and each man turned an eager,
inquiring face in his direction. After nearly two weeks of monotonous
training, the prospect of a real game, even if it was only among
themselves, was very welcome.
The new recruits, especially, quivered with anticipation. It was a
foregone conclusion that the game would be played between the regulars
and the “Yannigans,” as the cubs are sometimes termed; and the chance
of pitting themselves against their more experienced rivals thrilled
each one of the youngsters through and through.
The older men were more indifferent. They had played many such games
in past training seasons, and knew that these were organized by the
manager mainly for the purpose of watching the cubs in action and
studying their possibilities. Still, there would be a chance to try
their hitting skill against the bush pitchers, and any ball player
will willingly go without a meal in order to bat.
“You can try your hand at being field captain to-morrow, Cy,” Brennan
said, glancing at Russell, “and make up your own team.” He pulled
a pencil and rumpled piece of paper from his pocket and turned his
attention to the expectant youngsters. “We’ll see how you make out
bossing a team, Ogan,” he went on, as his eyes lighted on the promising
young first baseman from Ohio. “I’ll want these men to start in
playing. Afterward you’ll use your own judgment about keeping them in
the game.”
He began calling out the names of nine cubs, with the positions they
were to take, jotting them down as he did so. When he finished with the
words, “Whalen, catcher, and Locke on the slab,” Lefty beamed.
He had worked hard for two days to atone for the bad impression he
had made at first, and this looked as if he had succeeded. “And I’ll
do even better to-morrow,” he resolved, tossing up his glove in sheer
exuberance of spirits. “I’ll try to show him Toler wasn’t such a bad
judge of pitchers, after all.”
A glimpse of Bert Elgin’s scowling face only added to Lefty’s good
spirits, and he departed from the field feeling very cheerful indeed.
At the supper table Jim Brennan was conspicuous by his absence, and
curious inquiries revealed the fact that he had taken a late afternoon
train to Fort Worth, from which he did not expect to return until early
morning. “Pop” Jennings, the oldest and most settled pitcher in the
organization, was the source of this information. He added that he had
been left in charge of the squad, and hoped he would not have to break
too many heads to keep order.
The announcement caused no immediate effect beyond a certain noticeable
relaxation. There were a few more or less joshing remarks concerning
Pop’s new job, but they were comparatively mild. Before entering
the field of professional baseball Jennings had dallied with the
four-ounce gloves to an extent which gave him something of a reputation
in sporting circles on the Pacific coast. He was noted for a dogged
determination to carry out orders at any cost――a trait which made him
invaluable at the crucial moment of a hard-fought game. The players had
learned from experience that there would be no slurring of Brennan’s
instructions, and that any laxity of training would bring with it swift
retribution.
Happily, Pop had a praiseworthy habit of retiring promptly at nine
o’clock. Jesters said it was because he was getting old and had to be
careful of himself. The truth was that Jennings, raised on a farm, had
been imbued from earliest years with the value of the old adage, “Early
to bed, early to rise,” and couldn’t help himself.
During the early part of the evening the behavior of the Hornets was
unexceptionable. Some lounged in the lobby, reading papers, or chatting
lazily. Most of the cubs were gathered in a corner, discussing the
morrow’s game, and perfecting a system of signals for use on the
field. Quite a number of the regulars, gathered about the pool tables,
indulged in an innocent game of penny ante, or shot craps. A few
drifted off early to their rooms. Pop, making a round of inspection
a little before nine, decided that all were harmlessly employed, and
departed to bed.
Instantly the click of cues and balls ceased, card games languished,
and a state of general restiveness ensued. Lefty and two or three
companions, who had drifted in a few minutes before from the lobby,
wondered what was going to happen. They were not kept waiting long. At
the end of fifteen minutes Bill Hagin sprang to his feet.
“He’s safe,” he announced. “Come on up to my room, fellows. It’s the
whole length of the house from his, and we can have a little racket
without his getting wise.”
The response was instantaneous, for the Hornets, as a crowd, were
nothing if not lively. Every regular in the room arose promptly and
started toward the door. The three or four cubs present followed more
slowly. They had been long enough with the organization to learn the
wisdom of not being too pushing.
Hagin, glancing back from the doorway, sensed the situation, and
grinned. “Everybody come along,” he invited good-humoredly. “We’ll
teach you kids the first principles of draw poker.”
His remark was general, but his eyes happened to rest lightly on the
face of Lefty Locke in a manner which was distinctly challenging. Now,
Locke was a very normal young chap, and the tone of condescension
rasped him slightly. He fancied he played pretty good poker, and had
an idea that even the famous Hornets couldn’t show him a whole lot
about the game. Consequently he accepted the invitation with alacrity,
and was presently seated at a table in the big double room which Hagin
shared with one of the other members of the team.
Buck Fargo was on one side of him and Pollock, the red-headed
shortstop, on the other. Cigars were produced and lighted, cards
appeared, and presently, amid the babble of talk and laughter, Hagin’s
voice sounded:
“What’ll you have to drink, fellows? Speak up sharp, now; the boy’s
waiting.”
As he cut for deal Lefty glanced up and saw one of the hotel bell boys
standing near the door, order-blank in hand. From the character and
number of the drinks he put down, it became swiftly evident that the
crowd was certainly making the most of Jim Brennan’s absence. Calls for
high-balls, fizzes, gin-rickeys, whisky straights, beers, and ales came
from every side. If there were any scattering orders for soft drinks,
Lefty did not hear them. The Hornets seemed to agree with Red Pollock
that “them soft slops was the worst things a man could put into his
stummick.”
When his turn came to order, Locke hesitated an instant. With the
examples set him on every side by men so much more experienced in the
game, he need scarcely feel any compunction in taking something he was
used to in moderation. A single glass could scarcely do him any harm.
“Light beer,” he said, at length.
Glancing hurriedly over his cards, he quite missed the odd side glance
which Buck Fargo flashed at him. But perhaps it was not meant for him
to see.