OPENING THE SEASON
Slowly and leisurely the Hornets zigzagged their way northward, pausing
here and there to play an exhibition game with some minor-league team,
which was usually won by headwork and experience rather than by any
extraordinary display of hitting. Even after the regular period of work
at the training camp, the big fellows were not wielding the hickory
with special effect.
They shaped rapidly into condition, however, and, when the time came
to face some of the stronger teams of the minor-league clubs above
what was once known as Mason and Dixon’s line, they did not disgrace
themselves.
Finally, with much rejoicing, the metropolis was reached and the two
squads reunited. Jim Brennan, his mind finally made up after weeks of
close watching and weighing, proceeded to discard the few remaining
recruits who, in his opinion, had shown themselves not quite ripe.
Then, with the squad trimmed down to the number at which it would
remain throughout the season, a week or more of hard, strenuous work
ensued. A new infielder had to be broken in by his veteran comrades
to the finer intricacies of the game. New signals were devised and
perfected. Various pitchers were tried out, one after the other, in
a full nine-inning game, and their condition studied by the astute
manager. The batting order was decided on. In fact, everything was
done which could be done in preparation for that great occasion to
which many thousands of enthusiastic fans had been looking forward so
ardently――opening day.
It came at last, with its tricky April breezes giving the lie to
cloudless skies and brilliant yellow sunshine. There were the same
joyous, pushing crowds, the same blaring bands. Some of the men
had heard them many, many times before; but even they, though they
might dissemble and pretend a careless nonchalance, were conscious,
nevertheless, of that indescribable, irresistible thrill which they had
always felt, and would continue to feel to the end of time――their time.
Their opponents were the Terriers, an organization of scrappy players
who had fairly won their name. The fans got the worth of their money in
a snappy game which was not decided till the ninth inning, and then
only by an infielder’s error, which let in the single tally made that
day.
The second game was lost by the Hornets; but they made up for it by
having a streak of hitting in the third contest, and hammering out six
runs to their opponents two.
It was during this last game that Brennan tried out his cub pitcher,
Bert Elgin, for a couple of innings, and was so pleased with the
showing made by the youngster that he determined to put him on the slab
two days hence when they met the Blue Stockings for the first time that
season.
“I’m going to take a chance with him, and do the unusual thing,” the
manager confided to Jack Stillman while talking it over afterwards,
as he had a way of doing with this particular reporter. “I need a
youngster to work now and then until the old men get their wings well
oiled up, and I’ve _got_ to take the chance. I’m banking on Elgin.”
“Hum!” muttered Stillman.
The manager detected the doubt in Stillman’s mind. “You’ll have to
allow that he’s shown form and class for a youngster.”
The newspaper man shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll admit that, all right,”
he returned. “Still, that doesn’t prove him Cy Russell’s equal, for
instance.”
“Did I say he was? All the same, I wouldn’t be surprised if he pushed
Cy pretty hard one of these days. What you got against him, anyhow?
He’s speedy, and he’s got a fine change of pace. He’s brainy, too, that
boy.”
Stillman raised his eyebrows. “Well?” he drawled.
“Well, what?” retorted Brennan. “What more do you want than speed, and
control, and brains?”
“Sand,” the reporter said succinctly.
The manager laughed. “I ain’t seen any signs of his lacking grit. He
was up against some proposition to-day, too, and he pulled out. I guess
I ain’t making any mistake trying him out against the Blue Stockings.
He’s as good as any of Jack Kennedy’s string of cripples. He ain’t made
of the same stuff as that quitter, Locke, I fired in Ashland.”
A faint touch of color tinged Stillman’s face.
“You’re right there, Brennan,” he said briefly. “There’s no comparison
between them. Well we’ll see how he pans out on Saturday.”
As he turned away, a frown wrinkled his smooth forehead. He was
thinking of Lefty, and wishing fervently that he might be there. What
a chance it would have been! There wasn’t a question that, if he had
remained with the Hornets, Locke might have had the opportunity which
had been given to Elgin. Stillman knew baseball, and there was no
shadowy doubt in his mind as to which of the two was the better man. He
felt that Brennan could not have failed to see it, too, if he had not
been tricked into turning the southpaw away.
However, that was all over and done with. Not only had Locke been
fired, but at this moment Stillman had not the least idea where his
friend was. He had heard nothing from him since the day they parted at
the Ashland station. The pitcher had promised to write when he made
good, but he had not written.
“Maybe he’s working for some fourth-rate bush league,” Stillman thought
regretfully. “I can’t say I blame him for not wanting us to know. Maybe
he hasn’t got any job yet. I’d give a farm to get that crook Elgin
where I want him, and show Brennan what a mistake he’s made.”
Unfortunately the ex-sergeant at Ashland had, so far, failed signally
in finding a single clew to the mystery, and Stillman was beginning to
grow discouraged. It looked as if Bert Elgin had won out, in spite of
the fact that truth and honor and decency were all opposed to him.