THE SURPRISE
Amid the roaring of the crowd, the Hornets made their way across the
diamond. Brennan was in the lead, with Cy Russell beside him; and, at
moments when the scurrying phalanx of photographers permitted, the
manager talked to his star pitcher in low tones.
“You’d better keep your arm limbered, Cy,” he said. “I shall send you
in if they get to Elgin. The gink Kennedy’s going to open with ought to
be soft for us.”
“Who is he?” Russell asked curiously.
The manager paused until a camera had been snapped and the reporter had
retreated to a little distance.
“Some busher,” he explained. “Ken seems to think he’s a find, but I’ve
seen them kind before. Grist’ll take his place when we bat him out, and
we want to get away to a flying start.”
As they neared the bench, the fans gave a yell for Russell, and several
newspaper men came up to inquire perfunctorily whether it was not true
that he was to go on the slab first for the Hornets.
“You boys’ll find that out in time,” Brennan returned evasively. “Don’t
you know that I ain’t the kind to give out that information before the
announcer? Chase yourselves.”
He turned to Bert Elgin, who was standing not far away, looking as cool
and nonchalant as if he had never played on anything but a Big League
team, and proceeded to give him a few last bits of advice.
While this was going on, another cheer went up from the stands as the
Blue Stockings’ contingent appeared and rapidly crossed the field.
Brennan’s back was towards them, and he was consequently surprised to
see Elgin give a sudden start and stare fixedly at the approaching
squad.
For an instant Elgin’s face remained fixed; then into his eyes there
leaped an expression of such utter astonishment, mingled with hate,
that the manager’s words ceased abruptly, and he grasped the young
pitcher by one arm.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked sharply.
Elgin swallowed hard, and his face, which had turned slightly pale, now
flamed crimson.
“Look there!” he said hoarsely.
Brennan whirled and stared at the approaching players. For a second he
saw only the line of blue-stockinged men, headed by Jack Kennedy. Then,
as his eyes focused on the tall, lithe, graceful figure walking beside
Spider Grant, the famous first baseman of the rival organization, his
jaw dropped.
“I’ll――be――hanged!” he gasped. “Tom Locke!”
It was Lefty, browner than he had been a month ago, and with, if
possible, an easier swing in his carriage. His face glowed with health.
His teeth gleamed as he smiled at some sally of his companion. He
showed no trace of the awkwardness or embarrassment which one might
naturally expect at his first encounter with the team from which he had
been dropped in such disgrace. True, his brown eyes flashed a single
questioning glance at one man among the Hornets, but it was seen by no
one save that man, who leaped forward as if propelled from a catapult.
“Lefty, you old lobster!” he cried, as he gripped both of the
southpaw’s hands in his. “What you deserve is a good larruping; and I’d
like to hand it to you right now.”
There was an odd expression on Lefty’s face as he grasped Fargo’s big
fists firmly. For an instant he did not speak.
“I didn’t make good, Buck――honest I didn’t,” he said at length in a low
tone.
“G’wan!” retorted the backstop. “What you giving us? Ain’t you with the
Blue Stockings?”
“Yes; but I’ve been with them only two days. Kennedy farmed me with the
Badgers, down South. I never knew what he thought of me, or what he
meant to do, till I got a wire telling me to come on at once. I had a
streak of great luck down there, and I suppose――”
“Luck be hanged!” interrupted Fargo forcibly. “You made good, just as
you would have with us if that miserable sneak―― Say! You ain’t going
into the game to-day?”
Locke hesitated an instant, and then nodded. “Yes,” he said, lowering
his voice. “Kennedy’s going to give me a chance.”
Fargo grinned. “Glory be! The old man’s going to put Elgin on the slab.
You’ll be up against him at last; and, if you don’t make him look like
a rotten lemon, it’s all up between you and me.”
For a second Locke stood looking at his friend, with sparkling eyes and
swiftly reddening cheeks. His face took on a look of firm, indomitable
purpose. Unconsciously both brown, muscular hands, hanging straight
down at his sides, clenched themselves until the knuckles showed white
through the skin. Then he pulled himself together with an effort, and
laughed.
“You’re a hot ball player to talk like that,” he joshed. “You sure
don’t want your own pitcher to fall down, do you?”
“I’m not keen about losing the game,” Fargo returned. “But I shouldn’t
shed tears if Elgin was hammered out of the box.”
Up on the reporters’ bench a telegraph instrument had suddenly ceased
clicking, and a rush and bustle followed as a slim fellow in a long tan
coat and rakish soft hat pushed hurriedly past his fellow reporters.
He paid no heed to their comments and questions, but, reaching one of
the gates, thrust it open, and hastened out upon the field. A moment
later he, too, was shaking hands with Lefty and upbraiding him in
unmeasured terms.
Presently several more of the Hornets’ players strolled up and joined
the little group about the young twirler. The fans, realizing that
something was doing which they did not understand, gave vent to caustic
comments and various sarcastic remarks about the folly of delaying the
game.
Brennan, still scowling, called peremptorily to his men, and sent
them loping on to the diamond for preliminary practice. Locke took a
position over to one side, and commenced warming up. The field was
soon a picture of animated motion.
“What kind of a game is this you’re giving me, Ken?” Brennan inquired
tartly as Kennedy strolled up a moment later. “You told me you’d thrown
down that fellow Locke when he applied for a job.”
“No, I didn’t, Jim,” retorted the Blue Stockings’ manager mildly, a
faint twinkle in his dark eyes. “I said he didn’t stay with me long.
He didn’t. I let the Badgers have him. Hadn’t time to bother with him
myself, so I shipped him to them for a try-out, with one of my scouts
to keep an eye on him. The boy won every game he pitched, and did such
brainy work that I pulled him in. The reason I didn’t tell you his name
was because he asked me this morning not to say anything about him to
any of your crowd.”
“Humph!” growled Brennan. “Thought he was goin’ to jar me, I suppose.
So this is the bush wonder you were telling me about. I wish you joy
with that quitter. Better have an anchor ready to hitch to him about
the third inning. You’ll need it.”
“We’ll see if you’re right,” smiled Kennedy.
Brennan turned away, grumbling incoherently. Evidently he was still
feeling somewhat sore. The gingery fielding practice continued to the
delight of the spectators, who applauded every snappy throw or pretty
catch.
When the Blue Stockings took their places on the diamond their efforts
were cheered almost as much as had been those of the home team. The
great crowd seemed to be in a jovial, good-natured mood; though, when
the practice was over and the batteries for the day announced, there
was a concerted growl at the discovery that two unknowns were to take
the slab instead of the old favorites.
Nevertheless, there was no great amount of kicking. The game was
about to begin; that was the main thing. Besides, it would be rather
interesting to see which of these cubs proved himself the better man.
The photographers were shooed away and the field cleared. The Hornets
pranced out upon the diamond like a lot of colts, eager for the
fray. Elgin got a cheer all to himself for the cool, confident, and
business-like way in which he took the slab. The umpires got into
position, one of them tossing out a clean, new ball to the young
pitcher. The fans yelled again, just for the sake of letting off steam.
Then came a tense, breathless hush as they waited for the first ball to
be pitched.