ALL IN
When Lefty came to himself the electric lights were still blazing in
sickly opposition to the bright sunshine which poured through the two
windows. For a moment or two he lay wondering what had happened and
why he was stretched out on the floor, fully dressed. Then the dull,
throbbing pain in his head brought him to a sitting posture, with a
groan.
He glanced at the bed and saw that it was untouched. He looked up
dazedly at the cluster of lights, then down at his rumpled shirtfront.
The glitter of his gold fob caught his eye, and, with an effort, he
pulled out his watch.
“Twenty-five minutes to eight,” he muttered. “Time I was getting――”
He broke off abruptly and drew his breath with a swift intake as he
remembered. The game was to begin at eight-thirty. He was to pitch for
the Yannigans!
Staggering to his feet, he went over to the washstand and plunged
his face into a hurriedly drawn bowl of water. Nothing had ever felt
so good before. He dashed it on his hair, regardless of the streams
running over his shirtfront. Again and again he dropped his face back
into the grateful, cooling contents of the bowl before he finally
reached for a rough towel.
He remembered everything now――the absence of Brennan, the adjournment
to Hagin’s room, the cards, the smoke, the drinks, and――last of
all――that horrible attack which had come upon him.
What had brought it about? It couldn’t have been the beer. That was
wretched stuff, to be sure, but a single glass of it would hardly
produce such an effect. He had thrown his coat hastily to one side and
was ripping the collar from his neck when suddenly he stopped abruptly.
“Doped!” he exclaimed, aloud.
It was an almost incredible supposition, but it explained everything
perfectly. No single glass of ordinary beer could have the effect of
that one upon a man in Lefty’s splendid physical condition, and there
was the odd, repulsive flavor which he had set down to the poor quality
of the brew.
But who would do such a thing――and why? Locke’s first thought was of
Bert Elgin, but the fellow had not even been in the room. Hagin had no
motive――or, so far as he knew, any opportunity. Who else, then, could
have been responsible?
The answer did not come readily, for Lefty’s mind was working only
by fits and starts as he flung his clothes right and left, threw a
dressing gown over his shoulders, and darted down the hall to the
shower which Brennan had caused to be put in for the benefit of his
men. The tingling reaction of his blood under the icy spray meant much
more to him than breakfast, for an intolerable lassitude seemed to grip
his limbs, while the very thought of food was almost nauseating.
Lingering under the shower as long as he dared, he dashed back to his
room and began to drag on his baseball clothes. It was not until he
was buckling his belt, however, that the significance of Buck Fargo’s
remark when Lefty refused the second glass of beer came to him: “I
reckon you _have_ had enough.” Why had he said that? Was it because
he knew that the first glass was quite sufficient to do the business?
There had been more to the big backstop’s tone, somehow, than just
plain, casual agreement.
“Rot!” snapped Locke, snatching up cap and glove and making for the
door. “I’m loony! He hasn’t a single motive, and, besides, he’s not the
sort of chap who’d do a dirty thing like that.”
Nevertheless, the thought returned to torment him at odd moments during
the hasty choking down of a little breakfast, followed by the jog out
to the field――and afterward. It was the bitter disappointment and
humiliation of that afterward, which Lefty never forgot.
The cubs were in high spirits, eager for the chance to win their spurs.
As he watched their antics on the way out to the park, Lefty felt a
pang of envy. He would have given anything to have that same snap and
ginger, instead of feeling the lassitude and weariness which gripped
him.
Several of his teammates asked if he wasn’t feeling well, but he forced
a laugh, and put them off. He would rather have died than give up his
place to Bert Elgin. When the time came for him to go into the box
surely he would brace up and be more himself.
Halfway out to the field Andy Whalen, the cub catcher, came up, and
they discussed briefly the signals which had been talked over the night
before. Lefty wished desperately that he had gone off to bed directly
afterward, instead of strolling into the pool room and allowing himself
to be drawn into that game in Hagin’s room.
Regrets were unavailing, however. Though some one had given him the
double cross, Lefty realized that he alone was to blame for making the
opportunity. Then and there he registered a silent vow that nothing
under heaven should ever again induce him to deviate a hair’s breadth
from his manager’s rules of training. And then he wondered whether that
resolution had been made too late.
The teams had ten minutes’ practice in which to warm up; then the coin
was tossed. The Yannigans won, and, choosing the field, romped gayly
out to their positions, tossing up gloves, yelling persiflage at one
another, and altogether behaving coltishly.
Lefty was with them, but not of them. He had never in his life felt in
poorer condition for pitching. His head ached, and he was as tired and
drooping as if he had not slept in forty-eight hours. But he could not
bring himself to beg off, and there was no other way out. He caught the
ball from Brennan, who acted as umpire, shot a swift, appraising glance
at the manager’s impenetrable face, and then took the signal from
Whalen.