STOPPING A RALLY
By dint of playing for time, and putting over a couple of wide ones,
Pete Grist had prevented Forbes, the Specter left fielder, from adding
to the damage already done. Knowing that he would be taken out, he had
the wit to seize every possible chance to delay the game, and thus run
no risk of making any further errors.
He supposed, however, that his successor would be Orth, whom he had
seen start to warm up a few minutes before. When Lefty appeared on the
field amid the delighted roars of the spectators, Grist’s face turned
a brick red, and for a second or two he looked as if he could have
committed murder with the greatest possible enjoyment.
It is provoking enough, in all conscience, for a pitcher to have to
leave the box on account of bad control. But to be superseded by a
youngster whose Big League experience is limited to a few months, yet
who, in that time, had set the fans yelling for him as if he were a
Mathewson, is sufficiently humiliating to stir the mildest man to
wrath.
Mildness was not Pete Grist’s long suit, nor was this the first time
he had writhed in the grip of the green-eyed monster. As Locke reached
him his face was like a thundercloud. He fairly flung the ball at the
southpaw, and, without a word, turned on his heel and strode toward the
bench.
Lefty stood for an instant staring after him, a touch of sympathy in
his eyes. He knew from experience precisely how it felt to be benched
under such circumstances.
“Tough luck,” he murmured, as he mounted the hill. “I don’t blame him
for being sore. I would myself.”
Directly, however, he had thrust the disgruntled pitcher from his mind,
and was bringing all his skill and cunning to bear on the task before
him. He knew the importance of winning the game to-day. It was one of
those close seasons, with three teams fighting like bulldogs for first
place.
At first the struggle had seemed to lie between the Blue Stockings
and their old-time rivals, the Hornets. Well into July these two
organizations had it nip and tuck, and the Blue Stockings had no sooner
forged definitely ahead than they were menaced by the speedy Specters,
who were playing this year as they had never played before. Back and
forth they zigzagged, until at length the Blue Stockings, thanks in no
small measure to the astonishing work of their young southpaw wonder,
managed to accumulate a scanty lead, and hold it by the skin of their
teeth.
If they could only manage to pull through this series in good shape,
they could afford to lose a game or two of the return series, and still
enter on the last Western circuit with a slight advantage.
Lefty lined a few to Dirk Nelson, and, having found the plate, nodded
to the batter, who stepped up to the rubber again. The Blue Stockings’
owner had been right in saying that Locke had taken the measure of the
opposing team. The ability to size up swiftly and accurately a batter’s
strong and weak points, likes and dislikes, was something which had
contributed much to the southpaw’s extraordinary success. He believed
he knew the sort of ball Forbes could not hit safely; and promptly,
though without any appearance of haste, he proceeded to hand it up.
To the delight of the fans, the batter missed. The second one he
fouled. Then he let two go by. Finally he missed again, having been
fooled at last by a sudden change of pace and a slow drop when
he expected speed. As he sauntered toward the bench in elaborate
affectation of indifference, the spectators chortled gleefully, while
a ripple of returning confidence swept over the Blue Stocking players.
“Never mind that!” cried Murray, the visitors’ captain, from the
coaching line. “Get off that hassock, Rowdy. On your toes! Now, Jim,
let’s have one of the old-timers mother used to make.”
Donovan, the famous Specter twirler, was also a clever stickman. During
the past season his hitting average had been little short of the
three-hundred mark, and he was especially noted for helping along a
streak of luck. He walked up to the plate, bat swinging nonchalantly,
on his face that confident grin which annoys many a pitcher who
pretends that he is not disturbed.
Lefty eyed him coolly for an instant; then his eyes dropped to where
Nelson crouched, giving a signal. He shook his head. With some slight
reluctance, the catcher responded by calling for another ball, and
shifted his position the barest trifle. A second later the sphere came
whistling, with a slight inswerve, across the batter’s shoulders.
Forbes’ bat found nothing but empty air.
“Str-r-rike!” called the umpire, flinging up his right hand.
“Look out for those, Jim,” called Murray. “Make ’em be good!”
Donovan let the next one pass. It was a ball. Then followed a slow
one, delivered with a swing and snap that fooled the batter into
striking before the lingering, tantalizing horsehide was within reach.
Donovan frowned and regained his balance, annoyed slightly by the burst
of raucous delight from the stands. When he faced the pitcher again the
grin still curved his lips, but it had grown somewhat thin.
Silence settled over the field. Ten thousand straining eyes were turned
anxiously on the quiet figure in the pitcher’s box.
Lefty’s hand drew back slowly, cuddling the ball for a second as he
poised himself on one foot. Then, like a flash, his long left arm swung
flail like through the air.
The ball was high――almost too high, it seemed at first. But suddenly
it flashed downward past Donovan’s shoulders, and across his breast.
Too late the batter saw it drop, and tried weakly to hit. There was a
swish, a plunk, and――
“Batter’s out!” bawled the umpire.