ONCE TOO OFTEN
The Hornets were in high spirits as they took the field. To be sure,
the score was no more than tied, but the expedition with which those
two runs had been made was most encouraging. The sudden and effective
brace Locke had taken in the last inning removed, in a measure, the
fears some of his teammates had entertained concerning his ability to
handle the situation; and, as they scattered to their places on the
field, they urged him to “go in and eat ’em up.”
Apparently that was just what Lefty meant to do. The first batter
seemed unable to connect fairly with any of the balls passed up to him,
and he finally hoisted a foul back of the pan, which Fargo smothered
without difficulty.
When his successor, Gash Benkard, fanned, it looked as if that half of
the inning was going to be a tame one.
In any game it is unwise to make predictions of that sort, however.
Games have been won with no men on bases and two out, and this one was
still young.
Cinch Brown walked up to the pan, cool, confident, ready to duplicate
his performance of the inning previous. He did not find it quite so
easy, however. He slashed ineffectively at two balls pitched to him,
but finally succeeded in dropping a dopy little Texas leaguer over the
infield.
Kenny followed him. He, too, had done well on his first trip to the
plate, and hoped to do better now. He declined to nibble at Lefty’s
teasers, but stood, grimly immovable, waiting for one which suited him.
Nevertheless, the southpaw fooled him with two handsome shoots, and
then, having a bit of leeway, tried a high, wide one.
Kenny did an unexpected thing. Reaching far over the plate, he caught
the ball within an inch of the end of his bat, and sent it into deep
right field.
With perfect handling, it would not have been dangerous. “Dolly” Walker
had taken many such drives with ease, but perhaps he was too confident.
At all events, the ball did not strike his mitt quite squarely, seemed
to hesitate an instant, and then trickled unaccountably over the edge
of the leather, falling to the turf.
By the time the amazed and discomfited fielder had snatched it up and
lined it to first, Kenny was safe on the sack, while Brown, who had
apparently forgot that two were “down” already, slid to second just
ahead of the flying horsehide.
Schaeffer was exultant. “Got him on the run!” he jeered. “He’s a cinch.
Get in there, Pete. A little single is all we want. A little safety’s
the goods! You know where to put it.”
Nevens hit into the diamond. The inning would have ended then and there
had not Sandy Rollins, at second, fumbled the weak grounder and spent
valuable time chasing it around his feet.
Lefty felt a hot rush of anger stir within him. Two such errors are
enough to try the temper of any pitcher, especially when he is working
his hardest. The inning should have ended minutes before, and now
the bases were full, and Zack Schaeffer was swaggering to the pan, a
confident grin on his face.
The sight of him cooled Locke as swiftly and completely as it had done
once before that day. He shifted the ball in his fingers, taking his
time. He hoped to fan this fellow.
Suddenly he pitched, and the ball shot upward with a little jump,
rising over the Texan’s bat as he struck.
“Strike!” droned the umpire.
“That’s the stuff!” cried Ogan from first. “Got him swinging like a
garden gate, Lefty.”
Schaeffer set his teeth, and the flesh seemed to harden over his jaws.
His eyes gleamed.
As before, Lefty took his time. When at length he poised himself on his
right foot, flung back his arm, and brought it forward with a whiplike
motion, the sphere came humming over with speed which almost made the
air smoke.
Schaeffer struck again. This time he missed, as before, but even as he
swung he let go his hold on the bat, which went spinning through the
air straight at Locke.
“Look out!” cried Fargo.
The southpaw ducked just in time to let the bat pass over him. When he
straightened up, he stood for an instant, his eyes fixed on Schaeffer’s
face with an expression in them which showed a little of the contempt
that filled him.
“Beg pardon,” mumbled the batter. “Accident.”
Lefty knew the Texan lied. To be sure, a man sometimes throws his bat
in striking, but almost never straight out into the diamond. Besides,
Schaeffer did not have the least appearance of regret, unless it was
regret that the stick had missed its mark.
Locke made no comment, however. After the man had recovered his bat,
the southpaw stood for a moment, ball in hand, looking fixedly at him.
When he finally pitched, he used a delivery which seemed to promise a
swift one, but instead it was the slowest sort of a slow ball. In spite
of everything he could do, Schaeffer struck too soon.
As the umpire’s voice sounded in his ears, a snarl broke from the
Texan’s lips. For an instant it seemed almost that he meant to launch
his bat again straight at Locke’s head. Perhaps he might have done so
had it not been for the warning clutch of Gash Benkard’s fingers on his
shoulder. Then, with a furious motion, he cast the stick to the ground,
and walked out to the slab.
“Looks devilish, don’t he?” commented Whalen, on the bench. “I wouldn’t
be surprised if he picked a fight with Locke after the game.”
“Wish he would!” growled Bert Elgin.
He had been growing more and more disgruntled as the game progressed.
The first ten minutes had filled him with satisfaction at the
apparently poor showing made by his rival, but as the latter improved
Elgin’s temper became more and more unrestrainable.
“You seem to have it in for him,” Whalen remarked pointedly. “Strikes
me he got out of that hole pretty neat.”
“Bah!” retorted Elgin. “What did he get into it for? Any pitcher who
knows his business would never let the bases fill with two out, the way
he did.”
“Wow-wow!” barked the cub backstop. “I s’pose it’s his fault that
Walker dropped that fly and Sandy muffed a grounder that any kid should
have nailed. Whew! Did you see that? That fellow had better be careful.
One of these days he’ll bean a batter and put him out of business. Sore
as a crab, I reckon, at being fanned.”
Schaeffer was certainly vicious. Twice Monte Harris had barely escaped
balls sent straight at him. He was no quitter, but he had a notion of
his own value in the Big League, and did not relish being put out of
business by a wild busher who had lost his temper. Having protested to
the umpire without avail, he reached for a wide outcurve, popped a weak
fly into the diamond, and retired to the bench.
“That gink is going to get his one of these days,” he remarked to
Brennan. “Why don’t you make him behave, Jim?”
The manager made no reply, but, rising to his feet, walked slowly
toward the plate. He had not taken half a dozen steps when the accident
happened. Dolly Walker had stepped into the box, and apparently
Schaeffer sized him up for easy meat. He promptly launched one of his
cannon-ball whistlers at him, and the fielder was either too slow or
too obstinate to get out of the way.
There was a sickening thud; a smothered sound, half groan, half cry.
Half a dozen men leaped forward to catch the swaying figure, from
whose nerveless fingers the bat had slipped. No one was quick enough.
It was the startled backstop of the Texans who thrust out his arms
instinctively, and then stood helplessly holding the limp body and
staring down at the white face resting against his chest protector. All
could see that the man was seriously hurt.