LEFTY O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS
[Illustration: THERE WAS A SHARP, CLEAN CRACK, AND THE HORSEHIDE WENT
HUMMING INTO THE OUTFIELD.]
LEFTY
O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS
BY
BURT L. STANDISH
Author of “Lefty o’ the Bush,” “Lefty o’ the Big
League,” “Lefty o’ the Training Camp.”
_ILLUSTRATED_
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1914, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE UNLUCKY SEVENTH 11
II STOPPING A RALLY 19
III TIED IN THE EIGHTH 24
IV REAL PITCHING 33
V ONE FOR LEFTY 39
VI A SUMMONS FROM THE MANAGER 45
VII A GIRL AND THE GIRL 52
VIII AT THE THEATER 59
IX “IN BAD” 68
X THE GROUCH 78
XI ON THE RAW EDGE 85
XII UNCERTAINTY 90
XIII SUSPENSE 96
XIV A WILD HEAVE 102
XV THROWN AWAY 108
XVI HOT WORDS 113
XVII THE UNAPPROACHABLE LOCKE 120
XVIII UNDER A CLOUD 127
XIX THE STRANGER 136
XX THE RETIRED MANAGER 144
XXI BACK IN THE GAME 150
XXII BUILDING UP THE TEAM 155
XXIII THE MAN WHO DENIED HIMSELF 161
XXIV PERPLEXED 167
XXV STRANGER GETS A JOB 173
XXVI MIGHTY QUEER 179
XXVII DID HE REMEMBER? 184
XXVIII A NEW PITCHER 192
XXIX AT THE FIELD 199
XXX BASEBALL LUCK 206
XXXI PITCHERS’ WATERLOO 212
XXXII FILLING THE BREACH 218
XXXIII THE MAN ON THE MOUND 222
XXXIV THE OTHER PITCHER 227
XXXV THE STEAL HOME 233
XXXVI STRANGER IS ANNOYED 238
XXXVII THE DOCTOR’S DOUBTS 244
XXXVIII FIRST POSITION 249
XXXIX A TROUBLED MIND 256
XL THE REPORTER 262
XLI THE MAN WHO KNEW 266
XLII FAILURE 271
XLIII THE COME-BACK 274
XLIV BACK TO HIS OWN 280
XLV THE GIRLS IN THE BOX 287
XLVI THE GAME OF HIS LIFE 292
LEFTY
O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS
CHAPTER I
THE UNLUCKY SEVENTH
It was “Bush” Aldrich, of the Specters, who started the trouble by
smashing out a two-base hit in the seventh. Bush was one of the latest
acquisitions of that hard-hitting, snappy, scrappy aggregation of Big
League talent which had fought its way into the first division, and was
giving last season’s pennant winners, the Blue Stockings, a decidedly
uncomfortable time holding their all too scanty lead.
Bush had already shown his ability to stay with fast company by
getting two clean singles off Grist, the Blue Stocking twirler, but
fine fielding had prevented either bingle from being effective. Now,
however, with one out, and a man on first and third, either through
luck or cleverness, he hit again at the psychological moment to cause a
break in the hard-fought game.
Grist, sure that he had fathomed the youngster’s weakness, tried
his sharp outdrop, which had pulled the right fielder more than once
before. This time, however, Aldrich was ready for it. Poising a bat
that was a bit longer than any he had used before, he stepped in as the
ball curved and smote it a crack which brought half the spectators in
the crowded stands to their feet with a concerted gasp of dismay.
As the sphere whistled out on a line, Larry Dalton, the Blue Stocking
second baseman, flung up his hands in a ludicrous gesture of despair.
Brock, the slim, speedy center fielder, had already turned his back on
the home plate, and was flying toward the fence like a deer that has
heard the whistling whine of a hunter’s bullet. Unfortunately, the ball
held up better than he expected, and, though he strained every nerve,
he saw that there was little chance to make the catch.
With a last desperate spurt, he launched himself through the air like a
catapult, both hands outstretched. The horsehide struck the ends of his
fingers, and a despairing groan rose from the staring fans as it fell
to the ground and rolled to one side.
Brock snatched it up, and whipped it back into the diamond. Bugs
Murray was just jogging over the plate. Logie, the Specter shortstop,
had rounded second, and was flying toward third, urged on by staccato
promptings from the coaching line. Aldrich was fairly tearing up the
ground between first and second. As the sphere came whirling toward the
waiting Dalton’s eager hands, Bush slid.
The umpire, squatting to watch the play, put his hand out, palm
downward; and another groan arose from the stands, punctuated, by
protesting yells and bitter comment.
“They’re gone!” shouted the Specter captain joyously. “They’re up in
the air! Hit her on the nose, Rowdy; you can do it!”
Kenyon, the visitors’ clever second baseman, pranced, grinning, to
the plate, seemingly inspired with new life. Grist caught the ball
deftly, apparently undisturbed by the unfortunate break. As he paused
to drive Logie back to third, however, he discovered that Carson, the
new manager, had left the coaching line and returned to the bench, from
which he could get an accurate view of the entire field.
“He needn’t worry,” muttered the pitcher to himself, as he turned back
to face the smiling batter. “We’re still one run to the good, and this
little flurry is going to have the kibosh put on it right here and now.”
He had little fear of Kenyon doing anything; so far Rowdy’s hitting had
been of a decidedly negligible quality. Perhaps it was this touch of
unconscious carelessness which proved Pete Grist’s undoing; perhaps it
was due simply to the mysterious hitting streak which comes at the most
unexpected times, and without apparent reason. At all events, after
playing the waiting game to the last moment, Kenyon finally smashed a
sizzler through the short field, scoring Logie, and himself reaching
first by a great sprint.
Instantly the entire Specter visiting team began openly to rejoice:
“Up in a balloon!” “Got him going!” “Here’s where we lock it up in a
valise!” “Murder it, Ted, old man!” “Laminate it! Only one down, you
know.”
A low, concerted growl began to sound from the spectators who crowded
the stands. Ready to shout themselves hoarse for a man pitching a
winning game, their displeasure was even more swift, and quite without
mercy. Here and there a shrill voice bawled admonition and biting
criticism, which sounded above the barking chorus of the Blue Stocking
infield:
“Get into him, Pete, old man!”
“Kill him, old boy! You can do it!”
“Warp ’em round his neck!”
A spot of red glowed dully in each tanned cheek as Grist dug his copper
toe clip into the earth and cuddled the ball under his chin. The sudden
yelping from his teammates told the pitcher that they were not sure
of him. They were seeking to brace him up, as if he had been a raw
recruit instead of the bright particular star of the Blue Stocking
pitching staff. Moreover his quick eye had not failed to notice the
hasty appearance of two men from the sheltered players’ bench, who
loped off to the right, shedding sweaters as they went.
There are times when it takes very little to upset the equilibrium of
the most seasoned twirler, and apparently this was one of them. For six
innings Grist had pitched an almost errorless game, and there was every
reason why he should do his best to finish it.
Dillon was laid up, Bill Orth had a bad shoulder, and both Reilly and
Lumley were notoriously independable at a moment like this. There
was Lefty Locke, to be sure, but the thought of this brilliant young
southpaw who had, in a few short months, pushed his way upward until
he rivaled Grist himself in the esteem of players and fans alike, made
the older pitcher squirm inwardly, and brought a dogged, determined
expression to his face.
A moment later there was a crack, a yell of joy from the Specters,
a groan from the despairing fans. In spite of his self-control,
a smothered gasp of dismay burst from Grist’s lips. Knowing Red
Callahan’s impetuosity, he had tried to tempt him with a teasing
outdrop. That he managed to connect with it was probably quite as much
a surprise to the sorrel-topped third baseman as to anyone; but connect
he did in beautiful style, smashing out a single which sent Aldrich
across the rubber with the leading run.
Above the uproar of hoots and yells and catcalls from the stands, the
new manager, half rising to signal Orth to go into the box, heard a
sound he had rather been expecting for the past few minutes:
“Carson! One moment!”
It was the sharp, incisive voice of the Blue Stockings’ owner, who sat
with his daughter in one of the boxes just behind the bench, and there
was an imperative note in it which brought the manager hurrying in that
direction.
“Did you call me, Mr. Collier?” he asked, as he reached the box.
The tall, broad-shouldered, keen-faced man bent swiftly over the
railing.
“I did,” he replied, in a low tone. “Grist is going to pieces. Why
don’t you take him out?”
“I was just going to. I’ve had Orth warming up for three or four
minutes.”
Charles Collier frowned. “Orth!” he exclaimed. “But his shoulder’s
lame. This is no time to put in a cripple. Why don’t you use your
southpaw, Locke?”
“He pitched a hard game yesterday and――”
“And won it,” interrupted the owner swiftly.
“Quite so; but my idea was not to work him too hard,” returned the
manager suavely. “Of course, if you wish it――”
“I do. In my opinion he’s the only man who can stop the break and pull
things together. He’s got the measure of every one of these fellows. I
don’t think you need worry about three innings hurting his arm.”
“Very well,” said Carson. “I’ll send him out there at once.”
His expression was bland and pleasant, but the instant his back was
turned he frowned. “Butting in as soon as this, are you?” he muttered,
striding toward the bench. “Picked a favorite already, too. I s’pose
Pete’ll be sore as a crab, but it can’t be helped. Locke!”
There was a quick movement, and from the players’ bench appeared a
tall, lithe, cleanly built, long-armed youngster of twenty-three or
so, his cap pushed back on a mass of heavy, dark brown hair, a look of
inquiry in his keen, brown eyes.
“Want me?”
“Yes,” said Carson sharply. “Get into the box as quick as you can. I
meant to use Orth, but his shoulder’s bad. You’ll have to go in without
warming up. And hold ’em, kid. We can’t afford to lose this game, you
know.”
Lefty had already yanked off his sweater. Even as the manager finished,
he caught the glove tossed out by the second catcher.
“I’ll do my best,” he returned, jerking his cap forward over his eyes.
An instant later he was walking out upon the diamond with a lithe,
springy stride which told of splendid muscles under perfect control.
And as he came into view of the grandstand, the hoots and yells
lessened swiftly, merging with amazing abruptness into a shout of
delight, accompanied by a thunderous stamping of feet.
“Oh, you Lefty!” shrieked the fans fondly. “Oh, you kiddo! Kill ’em!
Eat ’em alive! Nothin’ doin’ now, Specters. Good night for yours!”