THE LUCKY SEVENTH
Unconscious of the gathering storm, Bert Elgin continued his fine work.
Inning after inning he held the visitors down, rising to his highest
pitch of excellence in the fifth by striking out the opposing batters
in one, two, three order.
His rival was equally successful so far as results went, but his
methods were not as spectacular. He seemed not to exert himself until
forced to the wall, and then, as likely as not, his manner of getting
out of the hole was such that the bulk of spectators put it down to
luck or the wonderful support back of him.
Thus it was that, while the metropolitan fans were howling themselves
hoarse with praises for Elgin, the Blue Stockings’ supporters could
never be quite sure that the southpaw was not on the verge of “blowing
up,” and their rooting was more for the team as a body than for the man
on the slab.
There were a few in the vast crowd, more observant than their neighbors,
who realized the truth. Elgin was clever, to be sure, but little by
little they saw how much of his success on the mound was due to the
knowledge and experience of his fellow players.
Buck Fargo was a born backstop. Absolutely perfect in the mechanical
side of his position, he was able to give his whole attention to the
batter and, therefore, seemed to possess, almost uncannily, the power
of sensing the sort of ball which would be, at any particular moment,
most distasteful. Happily for Elgin, the pitcher had the sense to
follow his catcher’s signals implicitly.
In addition to this, the others of the team were in thorough sympathy
with their pitcher. He had been one of them from the beginning of the
season, and had deported himself with cleverness that won the liking of
not a few. There were no jealousies and heartburnings to combat. They
were beginning, also, to feel a certain measure of confidence in him,
and their support was of the finished Big League sort, plus enthusiasm,
which was a joy to see.
It was quite the contrary with their opponents. Though they might not
realize it, the majority were still sore at having this busher put
on the slab for such an important game. They had no confidence in
his ability to pull out successfully, and, though their playing was
mechanically perfect, their support was that of men who are thinking of
themselves and their averages.
During the last of the sixth the Hornets scored another tally on an
error of the opposing shortstop, and the fans sat back comfortably,
assured that the game was safe.
With the opening of the seventh, there was a sudden billowing up of
the crowd throughout the entire circle of stands and bleachers. They
stretched themselves and stamped their feet until the noise was like
the deafening rattle of stage thunder. The visitors, though fearful of
defeat, nevertheless raised the stentorian cry of “Lucky seventh! Lucky
seventh! Here’s where we do it!”
Eddie Lewis, the Blue Stockings’ shortstop, was the first man up.
Elgin eyed him critically, and, remembering that he had caught the man
with an inshoot once before, decided to repeat the trick. He had been
growing more and more cocksure as the game progressed, so, when Fargo
called for a straight, fast high ball, Elgin responded with his own
views on the subject. It was time, he decided, that he cut loose from
the backstop’s apron-strings. He had been hitched to them too long
already.
Fargo repeated his signal, but Elgin shook his head obstinately.
Finally he got the signal he wanted. Lewis stepped swiftly back;
there was a ringing crack; the horsehide whizzed straight at Elgin,
who――ducked!
He had never done such a thing before, but the total unexpectedness of
the hit, and the fact that the sphere was humming straight at his head
with the speed of a cannon ball, deprived him for a second of reason,
and made his act instinctive.
Lewis got to first easily. The entire Hornets’ infield made various
caustic comments. From the stands the fickle crowd showered insults
which brought the color flaming into Elgin’s face and made him drop the
ball when he received it from the outfielder.
The incident so disturbed him that he proceeded to present Nelson
with a free pass, which brought loud cheers from the Blue Stockings’
rooters, and more unflattering comments from the upholders of the home
team.
“He’s going up! He’s going up!” chanted the visiting fans, grasping at
a straw. “Send him to the stable! Put the blanket on him!”
Elgin gritted his teeth and faced Jack Daly as he toed the scratch,
bland and smiling. Men were yelling advice to the batter; others
flinging taunts at the man on the mound. The tumult was increasing
steadily. Fargo, catching a glimpse of Elgin’s face, dropped on one
knee and deliberately adjusted his shoe-lace.
Daly let a wide one pass, and then banged out a grounder which, but
for splendid fielding, would have been a hit. As it was, Dirk Nelson,
forced from the initial sack, was put out at second by a hair. Daly
reached first safely, and Eddie Lewis executed an impromptu jig on
third.
By this time a perfect pandemonium had broken forth all over the
stands. The visiting rooters, seeing hope for the first time, seemed
trying to rattle the pitcher, while the fickle metropolitan fans howled
at the unfortunate twirler they had been cheering so vociferously a
short time before.
“Take him out! Take him out!” they bawled. “Russell! We――want――Cy!”
Amid this turmoil, Lefty Locke approached the pan, his heart pounding
unevenly and his face glowing dully under the tan. So far he had
shown little ability with the stick; nevertheless, the hopeful Blue
Stockings’ adherents greeted him uproariously.
“Kill it, Locke!” was the stentorian cry. “Kill it, old boy!”
The sound of their voices thrilled the southpaw. Only an abnormally
cold-blooded youngster would have felt no thrill. It exalted him and
made him confident that he could hit anything Elgin ventured to whip
over.
There was a momentary pause as Fargo hurried into the diamond and spoke
a few reassuring words to the white-faced twirler.
While he waited, leaning on his stick, Lefty cast a casual glance along
the wide sweep of stands and boxes crowded with yelling, cheering
humanity. The next instant his heart stood still. He was staring
fixedly at an upper box that was filled with a gay party of men and
women. As Lefty gazed with unbelieving wonder, a woman suddenly arose,
straight and slim and girlish, her face flushing and her eyes bright.
Smiling down at him, she waved a tiny handkerchief.
It was Janet Harting!
His face crimson, Lefty pulled off his cap a little awkwardly. How
she happened to be there he had no idea. Who she was with he did not
know――or care. She was watching him pitch his first Big League game,
watching his trial by fire, and she believed in him. He toed the slab,
believing more than ever in himself.
Elgin’s face was still pale and set. A moment before he had caught a
glimpse of Brennan talking earnestly with Cy Russell, after which the
pitcher peeled off his sweater and loped across the turf, beckoning to
the second catcher. It looked as if the end were in sight.
Nevertheless, he ground his teeth and scowled fiercely at the hated
Locke. He must get him――he must! The words rang dully through the
pitcher’s brain until he wondered whether he was speaking them aloud.
He paused, looking beseechingly at Fargo, who repeated the signal.
Reluctantly Elgin wound up and pitched.
The southpaw’s bat met the horsehide with a smash that sent it flying
over Nolan’s head toward the left field bleachers.
With a mingled cry of anguish and joy, the spectators leaped to their
feet and followed the progress of the flying sphere with straining
eyes. For a moment it looked as if the fielder might get it by fast
sprinting, and Lewis halted an instant on third, head twisted, gauging
the rapidly falling dot of white.
Then it was seen that Nolan must fail to make the catch, and the
runner was sent home with a rush, while voices accelerated Daly’s
flying progress from first. The latter rounded second without a pause
just as the fielder made a beautiful recovery and lined the ball to
third. There were frantic shrieks of “Slide! slide!” which Daly obeyed
without hesitation, skimming over the ground amid a cloud of dust, to
hook the hassock with his foot as the sphere smacked into Monte Harris’
mitt.
The latter sent it humming back to second, for Lefty was coming down
the line with the speed of a racehorse. But he, too, slid safely;
and the breathless stillness was rent by the loud rejoicings of the
great crowd of Blue Stockings’ admirers who had come over from the
neighboring city to watch their team open against the Hornets.
“Oh, you Locke!” they shrieked fondly. “What’s the matter with Lefty?
He’s――all――right!”
When the thunder of their accompanying stamping had died away, they
turned their attention to Elgin, calling for airships and the like,
until their voices were drowned by the howls of the disappointed
opposition:
“Take him out! Take him out! Take-him-out! He’s yellow!”
The pitcher, white-faced, beads of perspiration besprinkling his
forehead, stood shifting about near the slab, with downcast eyes and
lips which trembled in spite of his efforts to steady them. Once he
cast a swift glance toward the manager, but received no hoped-for sign.
He wanted to be taken out. He was afraid.