THROWN AWAY
In the Blue Stocking pit Carson sat gritting his teeth and muttering,
but he gave no orders that would tend to relieve the situation.
Nelson, standing on the plate with the ball in his hands, motioned
repeatedly before Locke saw him and came forward. They met a few feet
in front of the pan.
“What’s the trouble, old man?” questioned Dirk. “Are you sick?”
“Sick? No,” growled the southpaw. “Gimme the ball.”
“Wait a minute. There’s something wrong. You’re not right.”
“Nothing the matter with me. I’ll get Logie. They won’t score. Hear
that infernal bunch howl! They make me sick!”
His angry eyes once more swept the tumultuous stands, where the crowd
was jeering and hooting and shouting for the Blue Stockings to play
ball.
“You’re paying too much attention to the crowd, or something,” said
Nelson. “You’re not pitching in form.”
“Bah! I’ve got speed, haven’t I?”
“Yes, but――”
“And curves, too?”
“But your control is bad. If they score now they’ll take this game,
best we can do.”
“I tell you they won’t score. Haven’t I made good in every pinch
to-day? Well, stop carping, and leave it to me. Just you give me the
signs, and do your part of the work; that’s all that’s necessary.”
“All right,” said the catcher, trying to seem as confident and cheerful
as possible. “But don’t let Bugs reach the rubber――don’t, for the love
of goodness! Keep steady now, and we’ll hold ’em yet.”
He handed Lefty the ball, and Locke walked back to the mound, watching
Murray, who was capering off third in an effort to draw a throw.
“Come on, come on!” coaxed Bugs. “Heave it. You can’t get me. Heave it!”
But the pitcher refrained from throwing, and took his position on the
slab. The moment he squared away to pitch Dillingham ran far up from
second, ready to try to get home on any sort of a promising single.
That Locke had speed enough no one could deny, and now, to the
surprise of his friends and his opponents alike, he seemed suddenly to
have recovered his control. Doubtless Logie did not figure on this
recovery, for he stood up to the pan, without swinging, and permitted
two smokers to cut the inside corner, both being called strikes.
Annoyed, he gripped his bat and waited for the next one. It proved
to be one of Locke’s amazing hooks, all of which seemed due to cut
the pan until they “broke.” On the break that particular ball would
shoot downward and outward beyond the corner. It did so now, and Logie
pounded the air.
Laughing Larry’s joyous yell sounded high and clear above the delighted
shouts of the little gathering of Blue Stocking “bugs” in the watching
throng.
“All right――it’s all right,” sang Dalton. “You’re fooling ’em some
to-day, Lefty, my bucko.”
On the bench Billy Orth mopped his pale, perspiring face. “Great
scissors!” he breathed. “I believe he’s going to pull out now. If he
does, I’ll own up that I don’t know when a man has gone to the bad.”
The crowd implored Aldrich as they saw him advancing to take the place
of the thoroughly disgusted Logie. The game hung by a thread, ready to
drop into the laps of the Specters. Could Bush cut that thread?
“You’re there, all right, Lefty,” said Nelson, grinning through the
wires of his mask. “If they wait for you to hand ’em the game, they’re
fooled.”
Locke made no retort. In position to pitch, he faced Grant and looked
to see if the captain gave him a signal to throw to third. But,
remembering the wild heave to first, even though Murray was taking a
perilous lead, Spider withheld the signal.
“Get Aldrich,” he said. “That’s all you have to do.”
Locke’s first pitch to Aldrich was high, and the batter, after starting
to swing, checked himself in time to get the benefit of a called ball.
Nelson returned the sphere promptly. Lefty muffed the toss, brushed his
hand across his eyes, picked the ball up, and toed the plate.
There was a sudden wild yell of warning. Murray, spurred by desperation,
securing a good lead off third, had started on the jump for the plate.
It was an attempt to steal home.
“Here, here!” shouted Nelson, leaping forward to take the ball.
To the dismay of the Blue Stockings, Locke turned to look toward third
before throwing. Apparently he was surprised and dazed by failing to
perceive Murray anywhere in the vicinity of that sack. Nor did he at
that time seem to see Dillingham coming up from second as fast as he
could leg it.
“The plate! Put it home!” shrieked Larry Dalton.
Locke swung back slowly, almost heavily. At that moment Bugs was
flinging himself for the slide to the pan, and it was too late to stop
him. That steal had tied the score.
Then Lefty did what would have been a foolish thing had he made a
perfect throw. Swinging back, he pegged the ball to third, although
Dillingham was within ten feet of the sack when the sphere left the
pitcher’s fingers.
Leaping high, and reaching as far as he could, Jack Daly felt the ball
barely graze the end of his gloved fingers. Away it went toward the
left-field bleachers, and the coacher sent Dillingham on to the plate.
Joe Welch got the ball, and lined it to the pan in a hopeless attempt
to stop that second run. The throw was a bit wide; and when Nelson,
lunging with the ball, tagged Dillingham, the umpire spread out his
open hands, palms downward.
The game was over! Locke had thrown it away at last.