THE OTHER PITCHER
Old Jack Kennedy’s lips were pressed together, not a word coming
from them as Lefty Locke strode to the bench; but in the depths of
the manager’s eyes there was a wonderful glow, and he could feel his
usually steady pulse pounding with an erratic throb.
“Here’s the boy who could have pitched the Blue Stockings to a
pennant,” he thought; “and Al Carson didn’t know a good thing when he
had it. He didn’t know how to handle the lad.”
“Did I get away with that all right?” asked Lefty, with surprising
simplicity.
“Huh!” grunted Kennedy. “They didn’t score, did they? You ain’t heard
anybody kickin’, have you?”
“He’s some pitcher――he really is,” murmured Coffin, slipping into place
between Sullivan and Curley.
“Oh, wait,” muttered the big red-headed pitcher. “He’s only had to face
one man, and I didn’t see that he showed so much.”
“The Bucks will size him up in about two innings,” prophesied Curley,
“and when they do――good night, Mr. Stranger!”
“They’ve got a real pitcher in that fellow Elgin,” said Sullivan. “He
struts like a peacock, sure; but he’s got speed and slants, and he
knows where to put ’em.”
“It’s my opinion,” said Coffin, “that Bob Stranger has got a little
smoke himself, and that queer, twisting drop of his would fool old
Honus Wagner.”
“Yes, it would!” scoffed Curley. “It fooled Doyle once, but wait till
next time, Coff――just you wait!”
Even while this brief conversation was taking place, Elgin, still
graceful, confident, and filled with ginger by the applause of the
crowd, retired Captain Kilgore by the pop-fly route, and took on Buster
Brown. Coffin, who followed Brown, began looking around for his pet bat.
“You look to me like a blowed-up bladder,” said Brown, addressing
Elgin. “Put one across, and see me nail it. But look out you don’t blow
all to pieces when the bladder’s pricked.”
“Get his goat! Get his goat!” howled Peter McLaughlin from the stand.
“You can get it!”
Elgin gave Brown a contemptuous smile. “Why,” he said, “you couldn’t
hit me if I told you what I was going to throw. This will be a spitter.
You never could hit a spitter.”
Holding the ball covered by both hands, his head went back with a
motion which seemed to indicate that he pasted one side of the ball
with saliva. Then he actually threw the spitter to Brown, and Brown
missed.
“I’ll give you another, you big dub!” said Elgin. “Another just like
that. Now, go ahead with your puncturing.”
As good as his word, he threw another spitter, and again Brown fanned.
“Say,” said the batter, “you’re copying the style of Kennedy’s new
left-hander, ain’t you, telling the batter what you’re going to throw?
You’re nothing but a plain copy, anyhow.”
Somehow this touched Elgin, and his face burned. “If I was going to
copy anybody,” he retorted, “I’d take a real pitcher for a model.”
“Keep him chewin’ the rag,” bellowed McLaughlin. “You’ll git that goat
yet.”
Indeed, Elgin was so exasperated that he made a tremendously wild
pitch, and, seeing it coming, Brown took a chance, and pretended that
he was trying to hit it. With the swing, he let his bat fly to one
side, and was off toward first, which he reached before the disgusted
Yapp could recover the ball and stop him.
“Oh, wow, wow!” laughed Buster mockingly. “It’s a good thing the stand
was behind Yapp. They’d never found that wild heave if it hadn’t been.
Keep on shooting your face off, peacock. We like it.”
“You’d never get to first any other way,” said Elgin. “Congratulate
yourself.”
“Never mind him,” called Yapp, as the catcher for the Deers walked out
to the plate. “Put a nail in this Coffin. You can do that just as well
as you can Kilgore.”
“Why, you’re a real wit, Yappy,” said Coffin. “Why don’t you get his
umps to call time while you laugh at your own jokes?”
“Speaking about jokes,” returned Yapp, “you’re one. I heard Kennedy
kept you in the game and put you behind the bat for your hitting. Well,
you won’t fat your average off Elgin.”
Now, Yapp really knew Coffin’s weakness, and, with Elgin’s perfect
control, the man was worked for a strike-out, although Brown stole
second while this was taking place.
“Don’t exert yourself,” said Elgin, looking around at Buster; “’twon’t
be necessary.”
Lefty Locke was the hitter now, and Elgin seemed to have little doubt
in his mind as to what he could do with him.
“You thought you was something when you made the Blue Stockings, didn’t
you?” said Elgin, as Lefty took his place in the box.
“I beg your pardon,” returned Locke. “I think you’ve got me mixed with
some other man.”
“Oh, you do, eh?” sneered Bert. “Call yourself Stranger now, eh? I sure
don’t blame you at all.”
“Why don’t you pitch instead of talking so much?” demanded Lefty
impatiently.
“Oh, I’ll pitch in a minute,” returned the other, nodding to Yapp to
signal. “You seem in a big hurry to strike out.”
Lefty made no further remark, but waited in position to swing easily
at anything the pitcher might put over. Nevertheless, two strikes
were called on him, and he had not attempted to hit one, much to the
amusement of the great crowd, before he finally got what he wanted. The
ring of wood meeting leather brought a gasp from the crowd. It was a
line drive straight over the head of Berlin, who jumped vainly for it.
Now, at Elgin’s suggestion, the fielders had all been switched round
to the left; for, despite the fact that he was a left-hander, Locke
frequently hit hard into left field. This movement had brought the
right fielder almost in line with that tremendous drive; otherwise he
could not have touched it. The change enabled him to make a marvelous
running bare-handed catch which robbed Lefty of a three-bagger, at
least, and prevented Brown from tying up the score.
“Oh, dear, dear!” sighed Peter McLaughlin, sinking back into his seat.
“What a crack! What luck! Why, that fellow can hit ’em――he just can.”
Brown, swinging toward home after crossing third, and being told that
it was useless to run, twisted his mug at Bert Elgin.
“Luck saved you that time, Mr. Pouter Pigeon,” he said. “You’re due to
get yours good and plenty before the day is over.”
Although he shrugged and sneered, away down deep in his heart Elgin
felt a touch of apprehension lest the words of Buster Brown were
prophetic.