THE SPIKING OF SCHAEFFER
Instantly the whole field was in an uproar. The Hornets, fighting mad,
invaded the diamond in a body. Schaeffer, his face white as that of the
unconscious man, half turned as if to run. Then he straightened up and
faced the music.
“It――wasn’t my fault,” he stammered. “He was out of his box. He
couldn’t get away from my inshoot.”
“You lie!” said Buck Fargo. “You tried to hit him. You’ve played that
trick once too often, and I’m――going to hand you something!”
He lunged at Schaeffer, who stepped back swiftly and threw up his
hands. In an instant the crowd surged around him, shutting out those of
his friends who were racing to his assistance. Fargo was on the point
of swinging at the Texan’s jaw when suddenly the fellow staggered, his
face contorted with pain, a yell issued from his bloodless lips.
“I’m spiked!” he cried furiously. “Lemme get my hands on the dog that
did it! I’ll――”
His eyes met those of Lefty Locke, who stood close beside him on the
right, and in a second both arms shot forward, his muscular fingers
fastening with a convulsive grip on the southpaw’s throat.
“You hound!” he frothed, emphasizing each word by a vicious shake.
“You’ve put me out of business. I can’t play for weeks. It’s my left――”
At this point Locke recovered from his astonishment, and, with a
desperate effort, managed to tear the hands from their choking hold.
“I never touched you,” he denied. “I wouldn’t――”
Wild with pain and rage, Schaeffer frothed out an insult, and Lefty
promptly dealt him an open-hander on the mouth.
Cries of approval greeted the blow. Fargo was trying to get into the
mix-up, and others showed their desire to have a hand in the Texan’s
punishment. The latter’s fist shot out, but Locke parried skillfully.
Three or four of the visiting team arrived on the run, and a general
fight was imminent. The crowd was suddenly thrust aside, and Jim
Brennan appeared.
“Stop that!” he roared, grasping Lefty’s wrist and stepping between the
men. His face was purple with anger, and his eyes glowed like twin
sparks. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He spiked me!” snarled Schaeffer. “The cur spiked me! Look at that
foot.”
The manager glanced downward, and saw instantly that Schaeffer was
not bluffing. Across his left shoe, the gouging marks of spikes were
plainly visible. On one of them a faint crimson smear was showing.
Brennan frowned and raised his eyes.
“Somebody stepped on you by accident,” he said shortly.
“It’s a lie!” rasped Schaeffer. “He done it a-purpose. I felt his foot
jab down on me. He had it in for me all along.”
“Who are you talking about?” Brennan asked.
“Him!” retorted the pitcher, glaring at Locke. “I knew he’d be up to
some dirty trick.”
Lefty met the manager’s searching glance with perfect calm. “I never
touched him,” he averred emphatically. “I was itching to smash one into
him for knocking Dolly out, but spiking isn’t my style.”
“Humph!” Brennan’s keen eyes roved around the circle of faces. “Anybody
know anything about this?” he demanded.
There was a chorus of denial, and the manager turned back to Schaeffer.
“I’ll look into it,” he promised. “I’ll stand for anything but dirty
business, and any man who’d do a thing like this gets the gaff, I don’t
care who he is.”
He hesitated for an instant, and his jaw squared. “As for you,” he went
on harshly, his keen eyes boring the Texan’s flushed face, “you’re
rotten. Talk about dirty playing! If I’d had any idea what sort of a
cheap roughneck you were, this game would never have started. You can
bet your boots I’ll take pains to let people know just what you are,
and I kind of think you’ll have a hard job finding a decent team after
this that’ll have anything to do with you. See?”
He stood glaring at the Texan, who for once had nothing to say.
Presently Brennan’s eyes swept the circle again.
“No rough-house!” he snapped shortly. “You boys better beat it back
to the hotel. There won’t be anything more doing to-day. Dolly’s come
to and gone along with a couple of the men. This game’s finished. Get
started now. There’s been enough monkey-shines to-day.”
Reluctantly, and with many savage glances at Schaeffer, the Hornets
obeyed. It came hard to leave the scoundrel that way, but they knew
Brennan meant what he said, and so they gave in.
“Serves him good and right,” said Andy Whalen, as he caught up with
Elgin. “I’m blamed glad the cur got something to cook him, and I’ll be
hanged if I blame any fellow for spiking him. Wonder who it was? Didn’t
you see anything, Bert?”
He looked curiously at Elgin, who shook his head promptly.
“Not a thing,” the latter answered. “First I knew anything was wrong
was when he yelled he was spiked. I wouldn’t wonder if it was an
accident, anyhow. With everybody pushing and shoving, somebody likely
stepped on him without meaning to.”
“Nix!” retorted the cub backstop. “I took a good look at his foot, and,
believe me, it wasn’t no accident. It was a good hard stamp, done on
purpose.”
This seemed to be the opinion of those who had been near the Texan when
the incident occurred, and much curiosity was expressed as to who could
have been the perpetrator of the affair.
The general sentiment was that Schaeffer had been well repaid for his
dirty work on the slab; but the more thoughtfully inclined, knowing
Jim Brennan’s temperament, wondered what would happen if the manager
ever found out who had done the spiking.