TAKING A BRACE
“Sickening!” growled Bert Elgin sitting on the bench. “But what can you
expect with a dub like Locke on the slab?”
Andy Whalen, a little sore at having been left out of the game, nodded
absently. Next instant, however, he turned his eyes from the diamond
for a second to glance at his companion.
“It isn’t altogether his fault, though,” he said. “It’s no cinch to
start in pitching to a perfectly strange lot of batters, and Schaeffer
shouldn’t have had that base.”
“Don’t you believe it,” snapped Elgin. “If we had a real pitcher――”
“A hit!” Whalen cried. “No, it isn’t, either. It’s going straight at
Burley.”
Springing to his feet, he watched the ball soaring out into left field;
saw Tom Burley running back to get under it; held his breath as the
white sphere dropped swiftly, apparently straight into the fielder’s
hands; and then sank back on the bench with a groan as the fellow
muffed miserably.
“Butterfingers!” he said bitterly. “Why didn’t you hold it, you chunk
of solid ivory!”
Cinch Brown trotted easily over the plate, and Kenny, covering the
ground with tremendous strides, rounded third, and was urged on by the
coacher.
Lefty knew the sphere would be relayed. Disappointed by the unexpected
muff, it seemed to him as if the ball would never reach the diamond. In
reality, Burley, trying to atone for his miserable error, made a swift
throw which sent the horsehide straight into the baseman’s hands; and
Daly, whirling, lined it to the waiting backstop.
“Slide! Slide!” shrieked the spectators.
The advice was unnecessary. Kenny had already launched himself, feet
forward, at the plate, and so great was his speed that he almost
overreached it. He managed to stop himself with one leg across the
rubber just as the ball plunked into Fargo’s big mitt, and he was
declared safe.
Amid the yell of delight which greeted this decision, Locke turned just
in time to see Schaeffer streaking toward third. Apparently he hoped to
steal the base in the general excitement.
Lefty shouted warningly to Fargo, but the big backstop, on the job, had
already lined the sphere to Terry Daly. The latter caught it astride
the base, but Schaeffer slid feet foremost straight for the sack, and
spiked Daly, who dropped the ball.
A chorus of protest arose from the Hornets. Schaeffer got up, slapping
the dust from his clothes and volubly voicing his regret at the
incident.
“Too bad,” he said, as Daly limped off the field. “Accidents will
happen, you know. He should have watched out for spikes, anyhow.”
As he spoke he caught Locke’s eye, and the latter brought his teeth
together with a click. He felt sure that the thing had been done with
deliberate intention, and, in the fleeting glance he exchanged with the
Bronc twirler, a sudden determination filled him to repay the man in
the way it would hurt the most.
As he walked slowly back to the slab and stood waiting for Brennan
to send out a new man to take Daly’s place, a curious calm descended
on him. The outfielder’s error, coming on the heels of all that went
before, had brought Lefty to a state of nervousness which would have
been fatal had it continued.
It did not. In a flash it had vanished, leaving him cooler and more
composed than he had been at any time since the game began. His face
was so quietly indifferent that more than one player, catching a
glimpse of it, frowningly recalled the day he had thrown away that
first game to the regulars, and wondered with sinking hearts whether he
really was the quitter they had thought him then.
“He’s done for,” muttered Elgin on the bench. “They’ve got his goat.
He’s given away the game in the first inning.”
Andy Whalen made no reply. He was watching Lefty keenly, and something
in the southpaw’s face made him doubt if Elgin was right. There was
no question of the sudden change which had come over the pitcher, but
whether it was for better or worse seemed a question. With furrowed
brow, the cub backstop dropped his chin into his hands, and waited.
Tony Vegaro, the wiry little Mexican shortstop, was at the bat.
Schaeffer jumped away from third as Locke pitched, making a fake start
for the plate. He stopped short, and retreated almost instantly, but
behind him, Monte Harris, the experienced third baseman whom Brennan
had put in, streaked to the sack like greased lightning, and was ready
for business. Lefty had pitched the ball high to prevent bunting, thus
sending it into Fargo’s hands in such a way that the backstop did not
have to waste a fraction of a second in lining it to third.
There was a shout of warning from the coacher, but it came too late.
Schaeffer flung himself back with outstretched hand, but the ball
plunked into Harris’ grasp, and he tagged the Texan an instant before
the latter’s fingers reached the sack.
“Well, what do you think of that?” chuckled the delighted Whalen.
“Locke’s not so worse, after all.”
“He had nothing to do with it,” snapped Elgin, concealing his
disappointment with an effort.
Schaeffer arose with a fierce scowl, protesting that he had got back
to the base safely. When the umpire motioned him toward the bench, he
snarled out something about robbery, and moved grudgingly away.
Lefty then proceeded to fan the next batter with swiftness and
dispatch; and the Hornets romped in from the field, their spirits
beginning to rise at this unexpected finish of the inning.