THE TRICKY TWIRLER
Lefty approached the bench in a very dubious state of mind. He was not
at all sure that this first inning might not prove his last, and when
he saw Ogan hurry up to the manager and say something in a low tone of
voice, he fully expected to be told that he might ornament the bench
for the remainder of the game.
He tried to gain some idea of what was passing through Brennan’s mind
by watching his face, but swiftly came to the conclusion that this
was hopeless. A mask of carved and painted wood could not have been
more impassive. The manager listened to what the cub captain had to
say, without moving a muscle of his face. Then he spoke a few rapid
sentences, and Ogan turned away with a nod.
“You’re up, Buck,” he said shortly. “Start us off with a good one, old
fellow.”
Fargo grinned, sauntered to the plate, and tapped the rubber indolently
with his war club. Then he stood back, when Schaeffer, who seemed
to have been unnecessarily slow in starting, requested permission to
limber his wing a bit. The reason for this was soon apparent. The first
ball fairly made the air smoke, and it cut the plate in half. The next
was quite as speedy, but took a sharp hop as it neared the pan. The
third was a whizzing curve.
“Showing off,” Fargo commented, as if to himself, but in a voice which
penetrated to Schaeffer’s ears. “I thought that was it.”
Then he stepped into the box again, smiling at the Texan twirler in a
manner which seemed to aggravate that individual not a little.
With a sneering uptilt at the corners of his mouth, the slab man took
Kenny’s signal and whipped the ball over with terrific speed. The speed
was so great, in fact, that Fargo, in spite of the exhibition he had
witnessed a moment before, struck a bit too late.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” shouted Pete Nevens from third. “He didn’t know it went
by, Zack, old Bronc!”
“Give him another sample,” urged the player on first.
“Mebbe you’d like him to toss you one,” suggested Kenny. “He’s got a
nice little lob ball that mebbe you can hit.”
Buck Fargo simply smiled that wide smile of his, and waited quietly,
his eye on Schaeffer.
“Look out!” shouted the pitcher, as the ball left his fingers the
second time.
Fargo dodged instinctively, for the horsehide had started straight at
him with burning speed. Only by bending swiftly and holding his bat far
over the plate did he escape being hit.
This was one of Schaeffer’s little tricks to disturb the nerve of a
batsman. With the finest sort of control, he could usually put the ball
wherever he desired, and he chose on this occasion to send it as close
to Fargo as possible. He shook his head with an air of relief as if he
had feared he might hit the backstop, and was glad he had not.
As he straightened up, Fargo made no comment. He still smiled a little,
but a close observer would have noticed that his jaw was a bit firmer
and his lids slightly more drooping. If Schaeffer had only stopped to
think, he might have realized how many, many times this Big League
player had faced just such tricky pitchers before, and how perfectly he
must have learned how to treat them.
This thought did not come to him, however. Balancing himself on his
toes, he took a wide swing of his arm for speed, and lined the ball
over. It seemed to start exactly as the last one had, but, as Fargo
quite expected, it took such a sharp shoot that it cut the plate almost
in twain.
The big backstop was ready for it. He met it directly over the pan, and
sent it whistling above the head of the Texan first baseman, who leaped
desperately and in vain for it.
By rapid work, the right fielder got the ball in time to cut the hit
down to a single.
Bill Hagin stepped blithely to the pan, and Fargo danced away from
first.
The Hornet backstop was a fast man on the paths. To play for Jim
Brennan a single season a man had to be that, and Fargo had been three
years with the organization. Quick as a cat on his feet, he seemed to
know by intuition just when the pitcher meant to deliver the ball to
the batsman. For this reason he was able to get under headway in base
stealing even before the horsehide left the pitcher’s fingers. Although
Schaeffer drove him back several times, Fargo got his start on the
first ball handed up to Hagin, and was off like a racer. Kenny made a
fine throw the length of the diamond, but it was a fraction of a second
too slow.
Warned by the disastrous results of the last attempt, Schaeffer made no
effort to intimidate the second batter. Hagin had the look of a man who
eats speed, and his record quite bore out that impression. The Texan
worked so carefully that he succeeded in getting two strikes on the
outfielder, but this seemed simply to put the latter on his mettle. He
finally placed his bat against the horsehide with precision and force
for a long drive into deep center, which the fielder missed by less
than a foot.
Hagin was ready to take second on the throw-in, while Fargo, hitting
the high spots, rounded third, and was urged home by the coacher. The
ball was sent to second, and Hagin was driven back to the first station.
“Here’s where we tie up!” cried Ogan jubilantly. “Here’s where we take
the lead! Smash her out, Sandy.”
Rollins, second baseman, stepped up with the expression of one who has
every intention of making connections with the horsehide. Schaeffer had
recovered from his momentary annoyance, and was on the job. He pulled
the batter with the first ball pitched, which curved beyond Rollins’
reach. Then came a foul tip, that counted as a strike, and Sandy
flushed a little as he stepped into the box again.
“This time he’ll send over a hummer,” he thought, taking a fresh grip
on his stick.
Schaeffer went through the movements which seemed to indicate that he
was going to whip the ball over with terrific speed, but now, instead
of a scorcher, he sent in a ball that seemed to hang and drag in the
air, and Rollins struck too soon.
“You’re out!” said the umpire.
“That’s the goods, Zack!” laughed Kenny, pounding his mitt. “They can’t
touch you. Put this sorrel-top in cold storage for me.”
“Only one down!” cried Fargo. “Show this bunch of panhandlers what you
can do when you try, Red.”
Pollock stepped briskly to the plate, waited for a ball which looked
good to him, and smashed it out for a single.
Hagin, fleet as the wind, had been held at second. When Tom Burley
came up, determined to atone for his fielding error, the runner took
advantage of the catcher’s fumble of the first pitch, pilfering third
for all of the backstop’s quick recovery and fine throw to the sack.
Burley evidently wanted to bunt, but Schaeffer kept the ball too high,
finally forcing the batter into popping a weak infield fly, which was
smothered with ease.
“It’s up to you, old man,” Fargo said, in a low tone, as Lefty passed
him. “We’ve got to tie up the score, anyhow.”
As Lefty faced the Texas twirler, the latter’s lip curled in that
irritating sneer, and he promptly returned to his tactics of trying to
get the batter’s nerve. Unfortunately for him, Locke did not rattle.
He ducked a couple of whizzers sent straight at him, and then, when
Schaeffer handed up his famous inshoot, he lashed a sharp grounder into
the diamond, which smacked the pitcher squarely on the instep.
There was a roar of pain, followed by a volley of furious language from
Schaeffer. Then, recovering himself, he dove after the ball, secured
it, and lined it home.
It is probable that he had lost his head for an instant. Had he
remembered that two men were out, he might have thrown to first and
stopped the score; for he could have caught Lefty. Apparently he seemed
to think that the only way to stop it was to put the ball to the plate.
Bill Hagin had not been napping, however. At the first crack of leather
meeting wood, he shot like a rocket toward home, slid feet foremost,
and Kenny got the ball on him only when his spikes were shining above
the platter.
In his rage Schaeffer poured forth a volley of blackguarding language
which got the umpire after him, and he might have been put out of the
game had not his backstop hustled out into the diamond and grabbed him
by the arm.
“Don’t be a fool, Zack!” he snapped. “Keep your trap shut, or you’ll be
canned. Can you go ahead with the game?”
The twirler, managing to choke down his wrath, limped around the slab
a few times, and then toed the rubber again. He was still furious,
however, and Al Ogan landed on the first ball for a line-drive over the
head of the shortstop. But for a phenomenal catch by Cinch Brown the
Hornets might have scored more tallies.
As Lefty came in from the field, he passed close to the disgruntled
pitcher, and if looks could kill he would have been finished then and
there.
“I’ll get you yet, you swelled-headed squirt!” Schaeffer hissed. “Wait,
that’s all――just wait!”
Locke smiled blandly. “Quit your beefing,” he advised. “You’re making
everybody tired.”