THE GROUCH
A modern Big League team is very much like an overgrown family. The men
are together every day, and all day. At intervals they spend long hours
cooped up in Pullman cars, always putting up at the same hotels while
on the road, and frequently the majority of players belonging to a club
stop at one particularly favored place at home. They miss little going
on about them. As a result of this intimacy it was not long before
Locke’s altered demeanor became a topic of discussion among the Blue
Stockings.
“I’d like to know what’s worrying the boy,” remarked Spider Grant early
one afternoon in the dressing room. “He’s been going round for three or
four days with a face a mile long.”
He paused in his leisurely preparations for the game, and glanced
inquiringly from one to another of the half dozen men who lounged about
the room in various stages of undress.
“He’s sure got a grouch,” agreed Rufe Hyland, intent on the adjustment
of his sliding pads. “Ain’t seen him crack a smile in so long I’ve
forgot what he looks like grinnin’. Mebbe he’s peeved at the way
Carson’s been runnin’ him in at the tail end of games to pull us out of
holes. Bein’ a life-saver an’ gettin’ no credit’s enough to get any man
raw.”
“That’s true enough,” agreed Grant. “He hasn’t had a whack at a
straight game for over a week. Still, that wouldn’t turn a decent
fellow like Lefty into a chronic grouch; he’s got too much sense. No,
he acts to me like he was in love, and his girl had given him the
double cross or something. How about that, Larry? You ought to know.”
Dalton, wearing little more than his usual smile, shrugged his muscular
shoulders and bustled among the contents of his locker.
“Wouldn’t wonder if you’d hit it, Spider,” he returned, straightening
up with a flannel shirt in his hands. “He has got a girl――regular
peacherino, too――and I’ve got an idea that she has cross-signaled him
lately. He spends half his time writing letters, and tears most of ’em
up. That’s a bad sign, you know.”
“Huh!” growled Hyland. “This skirt business makes me sick. There
ain’t a thing in it. I’ve been hitched twice, and divorced the
same number――an’ never again. I wouldn’t make sheep’s eyes at the
best-lookin’ dame in this town, believe me. They git a fellow so
fussed that he don’t know whether he’s afoot or horseback. If some
female’s throwed the kid down, an’ that’s what he’s grouchin’ about,
take it from me he’ll be bustin’ up on the mound one of these days――an’
then where’ll he come off at?”
“Where’ll _we_ come off, you mean,” retorted Grant, with a frown. “He’s
the best all-round flinger in this outfit, and if he goes to seed then
go-o-od night post-season series.”
There being no other pitchers present, the statement passed
uncontradicted. Grant slipped out of his street trousers, carefully
folded them, and turned again to Dalton.
“Can’t you find out if that’s it, Larry?” he asked. “If it is, we ought
to do something to――”
“Cheese! Cheese!” warned Kid Lewis. “Here he comes.”
A moment later the young southpaw entered the dressing room, curtly
responded to jovial greetings――somewhat forced――from the other men, and
strode over to his locker. His forehead was corrugated by the frown
which had become habitual of late. His eyes were somber. He made no
attempt whatever to join in the conversation which swiftly started up
again, seeming, in fact, to be almost oblivious to what was going on.
He answered two or three direct questions in monosyllables, stripped
off his clothes with an absent sort of haste, got into his uniform in
much the same manner, and departed, wrapped in gloom, without having
volunteered a single remark.
As he disappeared into the corridor, the other players eyed each other
significantly.
“I never thought to see Lefty Locke with a face like that on him,”
commented Dirk Nelson mournfully. “Why, the boy used to be the life of
the whole crowd.”
“If it _is_ a girl who’s responsible,” growled Hyland viciously, “she’d
ought to be massecreed. There ain’t a woman livin’ that’s worth makin’
all that fuss about.”
Spider Grant finished lacing his shoes, and stood up, stamping.
“Try if you can’t get wise to the game, Larry,” he said abruptly. “I
don’t know as we can do anything, but it’ll be something to be sure.
He’ll loosen up to you sooner’n to any of the rest of us.”
Dalton agreed, but without any great exhibition of confidence. He had
noticed a marked reserve on the part of Lefty Locke lately, which did
not augur well for the extraction of confidences. There was a little
more talk on the subject, but it ceased with the arrival of Pete Grist
and his bunch of cronies. Soon afterward they all sauntered out to the
diamond.
The game that day was the last of a series with the Hornets, and the
last which would be played on the home grounds for some time. That
night would see the Blue Stockings bound for the territory of their
greatest rivals, the Specters, after which would follow the final
Western circuit.
Either the home club had weakened, or the Hornets improved noticeably
since their last encounter. The Blue Stockings had won every game, to
be sure, but they had won them only by the hardest kind of work; and on
two occasions the phenomenal pitching of Locke, put into the box for
two and four innings respectively, was all that saved the day.
To the fans it seemed a certainty that the young southpaw would start
off on the mound to-day, and a murmur of surprise arose when the umpire
announced “Pink” Dillon’s name.
Dillon was, at times, a brilliant pitcher, but he had been on the sick
list for some weeks; and the manager’s mistaken judgment was proved by
the fact that he lasted for just two innings, during the last of which
the Hornets succeeded in pounding out three runs.
In spite of vociferous yells for Locke on the part of the bleacherites,
Carson sent Grist into the box. He lasted until the end of the seventh.
Then, owing in part, perhaps, to the carping criticism from a group
of leather-lunged fans, to whom nobody but Lefty Locke looked good,
he made a sudden and pyrotechnic ascension which let in several more
tallies.
Lefty was hurried into the gap with the score eight to three against
the home team, and, though the portsider kept the Hornets from further
scoring, the Blue Stockings were able to get only two more runners
across the rubber. Therefore the game was lost by a tally of eight to
five.
The tramp and thunder of departing thousands had been going on for
several minutes, yet Miss Collier still sat in a box, her eyes fixed on
the throng of white-clad players just disappearing through the fence on
the farther side of the field. All afternoon the young southpaw had not
so much as glanced in her direction, yet to-night he was leaving the
city, to be gone for several weeks. It seemed as if he might at least
have said good-by.
“I wouldn’t take it so hard if I were you,” smiled Mr. Collier, turning
away from the friend with whom he had been chatting. “We can afford to
lose this game, you know. The boys will make it up when they meet the
Specters.”
The girl arose leisurely and turned her back on the field.
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” she said quietly. She paused for a second,
her slim, gloved hands straightening her hat. “Doesn’t it seem a
little odd to you, Dad, that Mr. Locke pitches so few games?”
“Few!” repeated the magnate in amazement. “Why, he’s been in the box
twice this week, and twice last!”
Miss Collier shrugged her shoulders gracefully. “Precisely,” she
returned calmly. “He’s been in the box for anywhere from two to four
innings. Three times out of those four he won games some other pitcher
tried to lose. He pitched a full game the day before I got home. Since
then he’s been doing the most thankless sort of relief work. You see my
point?”
Mr. Collier’s jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be hanged!” he exclaimed. “You
certainly put one over on me that time, Virginia――or was it Locke who
put you wise?”
“Certainly _not_,” the girl retorted emphatically. “He isn’t that sort
at all.”
“Hum! No, of course not. I’m very glad you mentioned this, my dear.
Such a thing is neither fair to the boy nor good judgment. I’ll see
Carson before he leaves to-night, and tell him a little something.”