THE STEAL HOME
The game, which had started out so loosely, and threatened to become
wretched at any moment, was now turned into a pitchers’ battle, with
Locke and Elgin working against each other. Settling down, Lefty
became silent, attending strictly to business. At no time, save in the
threatening moments, did he seem exerting himself to his utmost. The
uproar of the crowd, calculated to disturb his coolness, seemed no more
effective than the murmur of a summer breeze.
“If they think they can rattle him in this little one-horse burg,”
Kennedy whispered to himself, “they should have seen him pitchin’
before thirty thousand howlin’ fans in the Big League. Why, he’s just
monkeyin’ with that bunch. With him, we can walk away with the bunting,
sure as fate.”
With him! But what right had he to keep Lefty Locke, under contract
with the Blue Stockings? What right had he to hold this man, the
lack of whose pitching might prevent the Blue Stockings from taking
the championship? Was it not his duty to notify Al Carson as soon as
possible that the missing pitcher had turned up in Deering?
“But Lefty’s under suspension,” thought Kennedy. “They wouldn’t be
using him now if they had him. Oh, I’ve got to talk it over with him,
and talk straight. It’s the only way.”
There was little time for thoughts like these. The locals still held
that one-run lead, and Elgin, pitching like a man with life at stake,
refused in the sixth and seventh innings to let one of the Deers as
much as threaten to tie it up. On the other hand, in both of those
innings the Bucks got a runner to second with only one out, whereupon,
however, Locke tightened promptly, and there was nothing further doing.
The eighth opened with Brown leading off, and he talked to Elgin a blue
streak until the pitcher finally fanned him.
“Go sit down, and close up that hot-air vent,” said Bert.
Coffin picked a slant, and smashed it like a bullet straight into the
hands of the shortstop for the second out.
Then, again, Lefty Locke stepped forth, and Peter McLaughlin shrieked:
“Here’s the man to hit him! Here’s the boy! It’s all off now! He’ll tie
it up.”
Once more, away down in Elgin’s heart, he felt that throb of
apprehension. This was the man who had ruined his chances in the Big
League, the man who had seemed favored in everything by luck――Lucky
Locke he should be called, Elgin thought. And only for the chance that
had brought Hartford over nearly into center field, Locke would have
scored Brown on a clean drive the last time up.
“I’ll pass him,” declared Elgin suddenly. “I’ll pretend I’m trying to
put the ball over, but I’ll pass him.”
It was the weak spot, the yellow streak coming to the surface. With two
out and no one on the sacks, there was really little danger that Locke
could make a home run; yet Elgin was afraid. From over at one side, in
the midst of the little knot of Deering fans, Peter McLaughlin seemed
to realize Elgin’s purpose by the time Bert had handed up the second
wide one.
“He’s scat!” yelled the old hotel man. “Yaller――yaller! He don’t dare
put one over! He’s quittin’!”
The coachers took up the cry of “Yellow,” and Elgin viciously bit his
under lip.
“I’ll just put one bender over,” he decided. “I’ll show them that I’m
not afraid to slant one across.”
Using his curve, he put the ball over; but it never reached the waiting
hands of Yapp. Again Lefty met it fairly, and again it went whistling
out on a line. This time, however, neither infielder nor outfielder
could touch it. Only for a long rebound from the fence into the hands
of a player, who promptly returned the sphere to the diamond, Locke,
covering ground like a deer, would have turned the hit into a homer.
McLaughlin and the Deering bunch were howling themselves purple in the
face. Old Jack Kennedy, on the coaching line, flapped his arms and
laughed at Elgin, whose face was pale as a sheet of paper.
“Why, he knows how to hit you, Elgin. He can do it every time,” said
the old manager. “If the head of the list wasn’t up now, I’d go in
myself and pound him across. Collins,” he snapped, as Chick came out
from the bench with a bat, “if you dodge a bean ball this time I’ll
fine you a week’s pay. Take it on the nut if he throws it.”
“If he――if he does,” muttered Elgin hoarsely, “you’ll carry him home in
a box.”
“Oh, no――oh, no!” derided old Jack. “Why, you couldn’t crack a pane of
glass with your swift one. Get hit, Chick, if he throws at you――get
hit.”
“All right,” grinned Collins. “Let her come.”
Elgin pitched only once to Collins before something happened. Yapp
snapped the ball back, and Bert, catching it with one hand, was kicking
a pebble out of the pitching box when a sudden wild yell arose. He
turned in surprise, and saw Locke racing down from third, actually
attempting to tie the score by stealing home. And that with the head
of the batting order up! The astounding unexpectedness of such a thing
took away Elgin’s breath, and made him hesitate for a fraction of a
second.
Yapp, leaping forward to block the runner off, shrieked for Elgin to
throw the ball. Awaking suddenly, Bert threw it. In his haste, however,
he whipped it wide, and Yapp was forced to reach in the wrong direction.
Lefty Locke hit the dirt feet first, shot under the Buccaneers’
catcher, and scraped one foot across the rubber.
“Safe!” shouted the umpire, his hands outspread.
The great crowd was silent――all save a little bunch led by Peter
McLaughlin, who were yelling like lunatics. Elgin, ghastly white, was
dumb. It had happened, after all――the thing he feared; this fellow
Locke had snatched the opportunity to make him ridiculous before a
bush-league crowd. Like poison fire, hatred burned and seethed in
Elgin’s heart. He did not hear Bristol raging at him from first. His
eyes followed Locke as the latter, rising, pounded the dust out of
Kennedy’s Blue Stocking uniform, and turned toward the bench as calmly
as if stealing home was a common thing with him.