UNCERTAINTY
Contrary to the fears of a good many Blue Stockings, Lefty still seemed
to be “there with the goods.” To be sure, he stalked out to the mound
with a gloomy face and wrinkled brow, which was the very antithesis
of his usual cheerful, good-humored expression; but when it came to
bending them over, he showed every bit of his old-time skill for the
first three innings.
It was in the fourth that Larry Dalton, who had been watching his
friend closely, began to notice a change. Red Callahan, an uncertain
hitter, was at the bat. The southpaw pulled him with a pretty outcurve,
following with a clever drop; and then, with two strikes and only
one ball called, he whipped over a fast, straight ball, which would
have cut the heart of the plate had not Red fallen upon it joyfully,
smashing it out for a canter to first.
It was not a very bad slip; pitchers fail every day through
underestimation of a poor hitter. But carelessness had never been one
of Lefty’s faults, and Dalton’s eyes widened with surprise as the
Specter infielder romped down to the initial sack, and stood there
grinning.
The look of surprise deepened on Larry’s face when Locke gave the next
batter three balls in succession, meanwhile allowing Callahan to steal
second.
“That’s the game!” barked the Specter coachers jubilantly. “Make him
put ’em over, Jack. He ain’t such a wonder, after all. Too bad, Lefty,
old boy. Losing your control?”
“Make those dubs shut up!” snapped Locke, turning to the umpire. “They
can talk to their own men, but not to me.”
The coachers received a perfunctory warning, and naturally, when they
saw that the pitcher objected to their remarks, they redoubled their
efforts, simply altering the person.
Dalton could scarcely believe his ears. To think of Lefty Locke
being bothered by a little hot air! Ordinarily he simply grinned
aggravatingly, or gave an excellent imitation of a deaf mute. It seemed
incredible, and a furrow of anxiety flashed into place between Larry’s
brown eyes.
Lefty managed to pull out of the hole, but the mere fact that he had
allowed himself to get into it was enough to cause his teammates to
worry.
The fifth inning passed with the score still one to one――both runs
had been made at the very beginning of the game. In the sixth the Blue
Stockings scored another tally, a lead which they held in spite of the
desperate efforts of their opponents in the final half of the inning.
During the seventh and eighth Lefty’s pitching came near giving a
number of people heart failure. It was by turns mediocre to a degree,
and superbly brilliant. He would get himself into holes by inexcusable
carelessness, and then, when he seemed on the point of blowing up, he
would steady down and make the spectators shout joyous approval.
Throughout this erratic performance Billy Orth sat on the bench,
watching the work of the grim, frowning portsider with alternate
dismay, delight, and wonderment.
“Good Lord!” Billy muttered to himself. “I never saw him so shifty.
First he’s careless and wild as a hawk, then, just when he seems going
up for fair, he tightens like a drumhead. He’s got Carson squirming.”
True, the manager of the Blue Stockings was squirming. Even when Locke
fanned dangerous hitters in the pinches Carson, though showing some
relief, did not look wholly happy. At no time was the angry frown wiped
clean from his face. For through it all he was troubled by a nagging
conviction that the man on the mound was playing on his feelings as
well as toying with the opposing batters.
It really seemed that Lefty invited and sought threatening
situations――in any of which the slightest slip would give the Specters
what they desired――in order that he might make a display of his skill
by balking the enemy when they were almost grasping the coveted
prize. A pitcher who could “monkey” in such a manner, with the result
of a single game meaning so much, was not worthy of trust under any
circumstances. Had Carson felt absolutely assured that Locke was doing
this, he would have braved the wrath of the owner by benching the man
in one of those tense, threatening moments.
But Carson was not sure. Much as he disliked Lefty for certain reasons,
he could not bring himself to believe that a youngster with Locke’s
promise in the Big League would, through malice or spite, toy inanely
with his future prospects.
Nevertheless, even when Lefty succeeded in pulling himself out of the
holes, and came to the bench amid the approving uproar of the great
crowd, the manager could not bring himself to give the grim and sullen
man a word of encouragement and approval. True it was that Locke did
not invite anything of the sort, and actually seemed, by his cold and
distant manner, to repel the advances of his own friends and intimates
on the team. In every way he was thoroughly unlike the open, jovial,
likable youngster he had seemed to be earlier in the season.
Even Laughing Larry, than whom no one had been more intimate with the
young southpaw, wore an expression of troubled anxiety each time he
came to the bench following those pinches.
Billy Orth saw this, and signaled for the perspiring, disturbed Dalton
to sit beside him in the pit.
“What’s the matter with Lefty, Dalt?” asked Orth guardedly. “Do you
think――”
“Dunno what to think,” muttered Larry, in a perplexed way; “but I don’t
believe he’s right. The whole team feels it, too; and, with our slim
margin of one run, it wouldn’t take only the smallest break to put the
bunch off their feet.”
“Of course you’ve noticed how queer he’s been acting the last few days?”
“Huh! Couldn’t help noticing it. A blind man or a fool could see that.
He seems to be sore with himself and the whole world generally. That
quarrel with Carson didn’t improve his condition any. He’s in bad
there.”
“But he stands well with the skirt, and she seems to be the real power
behind the machine.”
“The skirt? Oh, you mean Collier’s daughter?”
“Sure! She seems to be running things.”
Dalton shook his head soberly. “And that’s unfortunate. Women may vote,
hold office, and go to war if they want to, but baseball is one thing
they’d better keep their noses out of. No team ever did well with a
female monkeying with it.”
“Do you know,” murmured Billy, “I’ve got an idea that I can locate
Lefty Locke’s weak spot. It’s skirts. We all have our failings, and
that’s his.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” nodded Larry. “I’ve always thought he had a
level block, till lately. Now he’s mixed up with two dames, and――”
“Why don’t you talk to him, Larry? You’re the one to do it. He ought to
listen to you.”
“Maybe he ought to listen, but he won’t. Once I wouldn’t have
hesitated, but now I can’t open my face to him without his being ready
to jump down my throat. I confess it has made me a bit raw, too. Once
he had plenty of friends, but if he keeps on he will lose the sympathy
of everybody.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” admitted Billy sadly. “I’ve been figuring to
get my fingers on some of that post-season money, but if Locke goes to
pieces now we won’t be in the running at the wind-up. Let’s hope for
the best.”