A SUMMONS FROM THE MANAGER
Lefty, having rounded first, pulled himself up abruptly, and trotted
toward the clubhouse, the whoops and yells of many thousand delirious
baseball “bugs” ringing in his ears. A wave of white-clad players
surged after him, but Locke had almost reached the gate before the
crest of it overtook him. An expression of happy contentment illumined
most of the faces. “Laughing” Larry Dalton, the happy-go-lucky,
brown-eyed second baseman, was grinning broadly as he flung one arm
over the southpaw’s shoulder.
“Pretty punk to-day,” he chuckled. “Can’t hit, or put the ball over――or
anything.”
“Perfectly rotten, he is,” chimed in Dirk Nelson, still breathing a bit
unevenly from his rapid sprint to the plate. “Carson oughta tie the can
on him for the rest of the season.”
Lefty chaffed back, and the whole crowd, laughing and joshing like a
lot of kids, pushed into the clubhouse. As they stripped off their
soggy uniforms, and scrapped good-naturedly for the showers, they
whistled and sang light-heartedly, living over the excitement of those
last three innings.
There were one or two exceptions. Some of the Blue Stockings’ old guard
had viewed Locke’s swift rise from the ranks with anything but favor.
In their opinion it was up to the busher to scrape along in meek and
lowly insignificance for a season or two before he leaped into such
scintillating prominence in the galaxy of stars. According to them, to
“ripen” and acquire baseball sense he should spend some months sitting
on the bench and watching the work of the veterans.
Lefty had upset every precedent. At each added laurel won by the
southpaw the old-timers shook their heads dubiously, declaring that
such a pace could never last, that success would swell the youngster’s
head, and making a dozen other pessimistic prophecies, none of which as
yet showed signs of coming true.
With the bulk of players Lefty was on the best of terms. He found them
a clean, decent crowd of young men, much in love with their profession,
somewhat addicted to draw poker and craps as a pastime, but temperate
as a rule in most things, generous to a fault, and very likable. Three
of them could write letters after their names as well as before, if
they chose――which they did not. Some of the others were a bit rough on
the surface, perhaps, but deep down underneath were made of the right
stuff.
The long, grilling struggle, which began with the opening of the
season, had brought them all very close together; and when a crowd of
men are fighting shoulder to shoulder day after day, having the same
goal, each giving the best that is in him to attain that end, they size
up one another’s good points and failings with a thoroughness possible
under few other conditions.
The new southpaw stood the test well. In spite of his six generous feet
of lithe, well-muscled frame, he was still very much of a boy at heart,
with a boy’s adaptability for making friends and a boy’s light-hearted,
fun-loving nature.
This did not mean that he lacked the capacity for taking things
seriously when the need arose, but he believed thoroughly in relaxing
between whiles, and in extracting all possible enjoyment out of life.
This trait, helped by a fine baritone voice, quick wit, the ability
to “put it over” any member of the club with eight-ounce gloves, and
almost as great a skill in coaxing popular airs from the strings of a
banjo, made him, within a month, the life of the bunch in Pullmans and
hotels on the road, no less than at odd moments of relaxation in the
clubhouse at home.
All this was, of course, of small importance compared with his
performance on the diamond. After he had proved his efficiency there,
however, by snatching victory from defeat in three or four close
contests, the majority of his teammates accepted him without question
as one who would “do.” The only exceptions were Pete Grist, whose fame
as the most reliable member of the Blue Stockings’ pitching staff Lefty
was rapidly dimming, and three or four old-timers who formed a little
clique among themselves.
“Pipe the old crab!” commented Larry Dalton, as he and Lefty raced in
from the showers, and began to get into their street clothes. “Some
grouch there, believe me!”
Laughing Larry had stepped from a fresh-water college into professional
baseball three years before. Being a natural player, he did not stay
long with the minors. In Locke he found a kindred spirit, and the
southpaw had not been more than two weeks with the Blue Stockings
before the two were chumming it as if they had known each other since
the bottle days of infancy.
At his friend’s remark, Lefty glanced sideways at the scowling pitcher,
who was dragging on his clothes in taciturn silence.
“Can’t blame him much,” he murmured. “If there’s anything that makes a
fellow feel rottener than getting the hook in a game, it hasn’t come my
way yet.”
“Especially if the man who’s put in happens to be a guy that’s made
good in the same way before,” Dalton grinned.
“Rot!” snorted Lefty, buttoning his shirt. “When Grist’s right he can
pitch the pants off any man in the club.”
“Maybe.” Larry’s tone was decidedly skeptical. “I haven’t noticed him
putting anything much over you the last month or more. Trouble with
him, he’s worrying for fear he’ll lose his reputation of being the one
and only genuine old reliable; and when a guy starts in with that sort
of ragtime, you can be pretty blamed sure―― Well, Colonel, what’s on
your mind?”
“Colonel” George Washington Jones, the Blue Stockings’ negro rubber and
general handy man, showed his ivories in a glistening smile.
“Mist’ Carson says he done laik to see Mist’ Locke in his office right
smart, suh,” he explained.
“All right, Colonel,” Lefty returned briefly from where he was
struggling with a refractory collar button. “I’ll be there in about
three minutes.”
“Some class there,” Dalton murmured, as the darky hurried away.
“When Jack wanted a man he’d stick his head in the door and make the
fact known. Nothing like that for this bird, though. First thing you
know he’ll be having a bell boy in brass buttons, and one of those
‘Private-no-admission-except-by-appointment’ signs on the door.”
From which it may be gathered that the new manager and his methods had
not scored a great hit.
Lefty nodded agreement, and went on tying his scarf. From the first
Carson had not appealed to him. The man knew baseball from the ground
up――there was no questioning that fact. His ability at handling men,
however, was much more doubtful.
Most professional ball players have to be managed with infinite tact
and judgment, and, though he kept his mouth shut on the subject, Lefty
held the opinion that the qualities which had made Jack Kennedy so
successful were lacking to a conspicuous degree in his successor. So
far the players had betrayed no signs of a let-down, but Locke had
noticed a number of insignificant straws, some no greater than the
remark of Laughing Larry, which pointed the direction of the wind
pretty accurately.
“I’ll wait for you,” Dalton said, as Locke slipped into his coat and
gave it a settling shake. “Cut it as short as you can. Don’t forget
we’ve got tickets for the theater to-night.”
Nodding, the southpaw picked up his hat and left the dressing room. As
he walked briskly toward the manager’s office he was wondering with no
little curiosity what was wanted. Carson could scarcely mean to put him
into the box to-morrow, after having pitched him ten innings yesterday
and three to-day; and aside from that Lefty could think of nothing
which would require a special interview.