THE MAN WHO DENIED HIMSELF
His pitching staff gave Kennedy the most trouble. No matter how
efficient a team may be in other departments, it cannot aspire to
championship honors unless it has a capable staff of twirlers. Curley,
Sullivan, and Heines, the three mound men for the Deers, each and all
had some weakness which was a drawback.
Curley was erratic and never to be depended on. One day he might pitch
a splendid game, and follow it on his next turn with wretched work.
Sullivan had a long swing which gave base runners a big lead and made
it almost impossible for the best throwing catcher to keep them from
stealing. Nor could old Jack break the man of this swing, for when he
tried to do so Sullivan’s short-arm delivery proved to be “pie” for the
opposing stickers. Heines had an arm that was good for four or five
innings, then broke like the most brittle glass.
In one pinch, with Heines’ wing failing in the fifth and the Deers
having a lead of three runs, Kennedy actually went on to the mound
himself. Curley had pitched the day before, and old Jack knew
Sullivan’s delivery would hand the game over to the enemy. Never in his
life had Kennedy attempted to pitch in anything resembling a league
game, and he was not the possessor of as much as one little dinky
curve. Yet, using from start to finish an underhanded ball, delivered
from the knee and shot upward close across the batter’s shoulder, he
managed to pull the game out of the fire by a margin of one lonesome
tally.
When the Deering fans hailed him as a pitcher Kennedy laughed them to
scorn.
“That was the greatest case of horseshoes ever,” he declared. “I
couldn’t do it again against a bunch of grammar-school kids. Heines had
the Stars dizzy by his speed, and when I handed them up that subway
rise they simply broke their backs trying to hit it. If I’d begun the
game I wouldn’t have lasted an inning.”
All this time, of course, he was trying to get hold of other pitchers,
and, most of all, he desired a left-hander to use against the
Buccaneers, who had five left-handed batters. Somehow he got hold of a
southpaw by the name of Billy Winkle, who seemed to have speed, curves,
and control. His lack of head might have been balanced by the good
judgment of Coffin, who was steadily and swiftly improving behind the
bat, but Winkle lacked heart as well as head; and in the breaks the
uproar of the rooters, combined with Billy’s fear of what was going to
happen, invariably cut the guy ropes.
About this time, still eagerly following the career of the Blue
Stockings, Kennedy was startled one day when he opened his newspaper
and read some black headlines on the first page which told of a
railroad disaster in which the Big League team was involved. In the
smash seven persons had been killed and twenty-one more or less
seriously injured. By rare good fortune the special car containing the
ball players had shot down the embankment on its wheels and remained
in an upright position after plowing deep into a boggy place at the
roadside. It had not been smashed, and, save for a shaking up and a few
bruises, not one of the men in that car had been hurt.
Having read to this point, Kennedy drew a deep breath of relief. A
moment later, however, he uttered a smothered exclamation of dismay,
for the next paragraph stated that one of the players, Lefty Locke, had
not been in the car and was missing since the catastrophe. He was not
among those killed or injured, and all efforts to find him had proved
fruitless.
“Well, I’ll be――jiggered!” muttered Kennedy. “Wasn’t in the car! Hasn’t
been found! Well, what’s become of the boy? He was under suspension.
I’m afraid――”
He did not state what he was afraid of, but the serious, troubled face
which he wore, and his eagerness for further details concerning the
disaster, indicated that anxiety over the fate of Lefty remained in his
mind.
One evening, two days later, shortly after the arrival of the seven
o’clock train in Deering, Kennedy sought Landlord McLaughlin in the
Central House to consult with him regarding some matter concerning the
team. As old Jack entered the office he saw a man at the desk in the
act of registering. There was something strangely familiar about this
man’s back, and when the new arrival made inquiries for a room with
bath the sound of his voice caused the manager of the Deers to step
forward quickly to get a look at his face.
As the clerk was fishing a big brass key from a pigeonhole the guest
leaned his left elbow on the edge of the desk and swung part way round,
thus bringing himself face to face with Kennedy. The latter gasped, and
let out something like a shout.
“Holy smoke!” he cried delightedly. “As I live, it’s Lefty Locke! How
are you, son?”
To Kennedy’s astonishment, no light of recognition rose into the man’s
eyes, and he made no move to shake the extended hand. Instead, he
surveyed the old manager in a puzzled, doubting way, and slowly shook
his head.
“I think you’ve made a mistake, pal,” he said. “My name is
Stranger――Robert Stranger.”
His mouth open, Kennedy slowly permitted his hand to drop at his side.
For something like half a minute he stared steadily at the person who
had denied his acquaintance. Suddenly he laughed.
“What’s the joke, Lefty?” he asked. “Put me wise.”
“Really, there’s no joke,” was the grave assertion. “You’ve got me
wrong.”
“What’s that?” rasped old Jack. “Do you mean to say you don’t recognize
John Kennedy, your old manager?”
Something like an annoyed frown crept into the somber, handsome face of
the younger man.
“I tell you,” he said a trifle warmly, “you’ve got me wrong. To my
knowledge I never heard of you in all my life. You call me Locke, but
my name is Stranger. That’s my monacker――Robert Stranger, Bob for
short.”
Kennedy pinched himself. “I’m awake,” he muttered. “There can’t be two
men so much alike in the whole world. Besides, he wrote his name on the
register with his left hand.”
Suddenly he began to feel a touch of anger. “See here,” he said
harshly, “maybe your right name ain’t Locke, but you can’t deny that
it’s Hazelton. You can’t deny that you’re a baseball pitcher and that
you were under my management on the Blue Stockings.”
“The Blue Stockings?” said the other. “They’re some. I hear plenty of
baseball talk. Can’t help it. But I never did take to the game any.
Perhaps it sounds like bunk to you, but I never saw a real game in my
life.”
“Help!” cried Kennedy. “I’m loony, or he is!”