A BAD BEGINNING
As the Broncs spread out on the field for preliminary practice, their
opponents looked them over with undisguised interest. They saw nine
husky, sunbrowned fellows, quick, lithe, and snappy in their movements,
who scooped up grounders, smothered flies, and lined the ball from
one to another without any bungling, hesitation or wooden headwork.
They had been playing all winter in the Southern States, and certainly
showed the fact in their efficiency and teamwork. They were not really
Texans, although posing as such, but, instead, players gathered from
various parts of the country.
“Looks like a pretty swift crowd,” Al Ogan remarked to Lefty. “If any
one should ask me, I’d say we had our work cut out for us.”
Locke smiled faintly.
“I reckon we can handle them,” he returned. “With Fargo and Pollock in
the infield and Hagin at center, I’m not worrying. Each one of those
men hit over three hundred last season.”
“Exactly,” the cub captain said significantly, “but that was last
season. Their averages have been pretty punk this spring. I’m not so
sure that the team is strengthened a whole lot by running them in at
the last minute.”
“Personally, I’m mighty glad to have Fargo behind the pan,” said Lefty.
“Whalen isn’t bad, but there’s not another backstop in the country who
can teach Buck anything. Well, there goes the umpire. It’s up to us to
show these bucking broncs that they’re not the whole shooting match.”
Though he spoke confidently, Lefty did not feel quite as nonchalant and
undisturbed as he pretended to be.
The Hornets had the field, and it was up to their pitcher to keep the
heavy hitters, who would almost certainly head their opponents’ batting
list, from doing too much damage before he had discovered the strength
and weakness of each man, and could govern himself accordingly.
Lefty knew that Fargo would help him out to the best of his ability,
but even the experienced backstop could not be counted on to gauge
accurately the batting capabilities of men he had never set eyes on
before. There was nothing to do but proceed cautiously, sounding the
batters as best he could and relying on his support to take care of
the hits.
The first man up was “Cinch” Brown, one of the Texan outfielders, a
tall, rangy fellow with a hawklike nose and a pair of keen, dark eyes
which seemed to miss nothing. For a second the southpaw hesitated,
trying to fathom just what sort of a ball would be “meat” to this
Southerner.
Something――intuition, perhaps――gave Lefty the notion that a low,
straight one, close to the knees, would be less palatable than any
other, and his judgment was strengthened when Fargo crouched behind the
pan and made a signal beneath his huge mitt.
Without delay, the southpaw put it over, straight, swift, and cutting
the near corner just above the batter’s knees――and Brown lashed it out
as if he preferred that kind of a ball to any other.
But for the fast fielding of Bill Hagin, the hit would have been good
for two cushions. The Big League man, however, got after the ball in
splendid style, and made a running, one-handed stop, which prevented
the sphere from getting away into the remote distance of center field.
“That’s the stuff, Cinch!” came in a harsh voice from a little to the
left of the plate. “That’s the way to start her off. This kid’s easy
fruit. We’ll have him going. Smash it out, Bull; you can do it.”
There was an odd, unpleasant quality to the voice which made Lefty
dislike it intuitively. He cast a swift, curious glance in that
direction, and saw, as he had surmised, that it came from the notorious
Zack Schaeffer. The Texan twirler stood with his hands on his hips, his
powerful legs spread wide apart. When his eyes met Lefty’s, a slight
sneer curved his full red lips, and, with an unpleasant laugh, he
turned to say something to the man near him.
That sort of thing did not bother the southpaw in the least. With an
inward determination to settle Schaeffer’s hash if he possibly could
when the latter came to the bat, he turned his attention to Bull Kenny,
the backstop of the Broncs.
The latter looked dangerous as he squared himself at the plate, poising
his bat over his shoulder. He was a big, square-jawed, heavily built
fellow, and wielded a massive club. Ordinarily Locke would have looked
for a bunt, but it was evident from the way he held himself that Kenny
had no intention of sacrificing.
He quite ignored a coaxer which Lefty tried him with, and the latter,
taking a signal from Fargo, sent over a whistling high inshoot.
Kenny smashed it full and fair, driving it out on a line over the head
of Sandy Rollins at second. Then he dug his spikes into the ground, and
went flying down the line to first at a speed which showed that hitting
was not his only accomplishment.
As before, it was Hagin who raced forward, scooped up the ball on the
run, and lined it to second. Brown had taken a fair lead, however, and
made the second sack by a hair’s breadth, amid a cloud of dust.
“Got ’em going, boys!” yelled Schaeffer. “They’re e-easy. Now, Pete,
you know what to do.”
Nevens, third baseman, evidently did. He was prepared to sacrifice,
but Locke kept the ball high so that it was difficult for him to bunt
effectively. He was finally forced to hit, and hit he did, though not
safely. Nevertheless, he pounded the ball into the diamond, and the two
runners advanced, while he was thrown out at first.
“That’s the stuff,” laughed Schaeffer, as he stepped out with his bat.
“Here’s where we pull the Hornet’s stinger.”
He had a peculiar swaggering gait, and carried himself in a manner
which showed how thoroughly he appreciated his own ability. Lefty
felt an intense desire to fan the fellow, who seemed so cocksure of
himself. He was glancing at Fargo, ready to take the signal, when he
saw that Schaeffer had crowded up to the plate, his toes well over the
box line.
“Get back,” Locke said sharply.
“Aw, pitch the ball!” snapped Schaeffer. “What’s bitin’ you?”
“You’re out of your box,” declared Lefty. “I’m liable to hit you.”
“I’ll take a chance, Willie,” the Texan retorted offensively. “I ain’t
seen you pass up anything very dangerous so far.”
Nevertheless, at the umpire’s command, he edged back grudgingly, but
persisted in keeping a bit of his toes over the line.
“The close ones for him,” Lefty decided swiftly. “With that reach of
his, he can hit anything a foot outside the pan.”
He therefore shook his head when Fargo signaled. When the big backstop
changed the sign, Lefty, after a glance at the base runners, used a
short, swift delivery, and passed up an inshoot, intending to keep the
ball close to the knuckles of the batter.
Schaeffer stepped in, and was unable to dodge that shoot. It caught him
glancingly, high up on the body, and made him stagger a bit. Then,
growling a few choice epithets, he obeyed the umpire’s signal to take
his base.
“That man stepped out of his box, Mr. Umpire,” Fargo protested. “He
wouldn’t have been hit if he’d kept his place.”
“Aw, cut that out!” snarled Schaeffer, limping in an exaggerated
manner. “I was hit a-purpose. Just wait, my young squab,” he added out
of the corner of his mouth to Lefty. “I’ll get _you_.”
The umpire refused to reverse his decision.
As he took the ball from Fargo, Lefty’s blood was tingling, and his
face flushed. He managed to keep a grip on his temper, however. With
the bases full and only one out, coolness was at a premium.