LEFTY’S TRIUMPH
Again the crowd cheered and yelled like lunatics, shouting Locke’s name
over and over as he walked toward the bench. His teammates surrounded
him, patting him on the back and uttering brief, friendly words of
praise. He was one of them now. He had won his spurs and fairly earned
the right to their esteem.
But the game was not over. Russell fanned the next batter with swift
precision, and the Blue Stockings took the field. Their supporters in
the stands urged the southpaw, in frantic terms, to “Hold ’em!”
The Hornets’ sympathizers were equally vehement in their entreaties
to the home team to “Get in there and smash it out!” The uproar was
deafening. It subsided only when Ed Nolan walked up and squared himself
at the plate. There were a few last shouts of encouragement, and then
silence, tense and absolute, fell upon the vast inclosure.
Lefty knew that the Hornets’ fielder was a man to fear. He could hit
almost any kind of ball with ease. In fact, the southpaw, in spite of
his having played so many practice games against the fellow, had never
yet fathomed his hitting weakness. He wished that almost any other man
in the batting list could have been the one to face him now, but there
was no use pining for the impossible, so he proceeded to send over a
tempting feeler.
But Nolan declined to be fooled. He disdained the first two balls, and
the crowd began to shout for a free pass.
Then Lefty whipped over a good one, following it with a whizzer with
a perplexing jump just before it reached the pan. But the batter was
there with the goods, and, though he did not strike the horsehide quite
squarely, he lashed it out between second and short.
Lewis lunged for it, and his fingers almost touched the sphere, but not
quite. Nolan rounded first to the accompaniment of much joyful clamor.
And now came Fargo, the man who knew Locke’s methods better than any
other on the team. The southpaw worked him with the utmost care,
pitching as he had never pitched before; and then, just as he fancied
he had the backstop in a hole, Buck suddenly and unexpectedly bunted,
sending the ball rolling slowly toward first.
Lefty got the sphere, but secured it in bad position to throw. Without
attempting to straighten up, he jerked it past Fargo, who was making
the final long strides for the sack.
Grant should have caught it, for the throw was good. Perhaps he was
too confident. Perhaps there was no excuse at all, for even Big League
players make errors of that sort now and then. At all events, he
dropped the ball. The spectators fairly made the stands shake with
their raucous joy.
“Hit it out!” they shrieked. “Smash it on the nose! Here’s where we get
two runs and the game!”
Pollock did his best, but only succeeded in sending up a high fly into
short center which the fielder secured with ease. Then Johnny Burns
hurried up, eager to help things along, and confident that he could do
it.
Lefty felt that the man was positively itching to hit. He could read
it in the fellow’s face and manner, and he determined to play upon
the batter’s eagerness. A high drop across Burns’ shoulder deceived
him, but did not shake his confidence. It was followed by another high
ball, which was, however, an inshoot, and again the Hornet fielder
missed.
“Hit it, Johnny!” pleaded the local fans. “Don’t let him fool you.
Smash it out.”
“Fan him!” shrieked the Blue Stockings’ supporters wildly, their hopes
beginning to rise again. “Fan him, Lefty! You’ve got to do it.”
Lefty hesitated a second, his face cool and impenetrable, the muscles
of his jaw sharply defined. He felt that the batter would expect him to
try a coaxer; for, with no balls called, most pitchers would feel that
they could afford to waste one or two.
He glanced round, his foot on the slab. When he turned back, he pitched
without the slightest preliminary swing, sending over a high, straight,
speedy ball. It had been his object to catch Burns unprepared, and he
succeeded. The batter struck a second too late, and the ball spanked
into Nelson’s glove.
“Out!” called the umpire.
But the word was not heard because of the deafening roar which rose
from the delighted visitors.
Lefty was scarcely conscious of the turmoil. It sounded faint and
far away, like the beating of breakers on a rocky coast, and mingled
insensibly with the words he was saying over and over to himself:
“One more! Only one more! I must get him――I’ve got to!”
He dared not risk a glance at that upper box. The moment was too
tense. And yet in his mind he pictured the girl leaning breathlessly
over the railing, her tiny gloved hands clasped rigidly together, her
face a little pale, her violet eyes wide open and almost black with
excitement. She must not be disappointed――she should not!
How Sandy Rollins missed the first ball he reached for was something he
never understood. When he struck, he felt absolutely certain that he
would meet it full upon the trademark. His failure brought a ludicrous
expression of surprise to his face.
The Blue Stockings’ rooters yelled madly. Most of them were on their
feet now, staring down into the diamond. The opposing fans, beginning
to lose hope, divided their efforts between hurling caustic comments at
the batter and trying to break the pitcher up.
In this latter attempt they were unsuccessful. Locke paid absolutely
no attention to them. It is doubtful whether he was conscious of their
presence. He was not faltering now. He was wasting no time, yet he did
not hurry. He put over an erratic curve that fooled Rollins even more
than had the first one. Indeed, the ball seemed actually to dodge the
bat as the Hornets’ baseman slashed at it.
Another roar went up which drowned the umpire’s voice. Nolan, quivering
with eagerness, held himself ready to run, working off third. Lefty
drove him back.
A hush settled upon the field. It almost seemed as if each little human
atom of the thousands which overflowed the wide sweep of stand and
bleacher had ceased to breathe. Even the coachers were silent for the
instant――and Locke pitched.
Rollins’ judgment told him that the ball would cut a corner when it
broke. He was not mistaken. It came over; but, instead of crossing the
outside corner, as he expected, it took such a sharp, amazing shoot
over the inside that the batter missed cleanly.
“Out!” shouted the umpire, flinging up one hand.