THE COME-BACK
Jack Stillman went in search of Janet Harting, while Lefty remained
pitching for Jack Kennedy under the name of Stranger. As a mascot and
a winning pitcher, he proved to be such a success that, with the close
of the season a week away, the Deers were entrenched in first position
beyond any possibility of dislodgment.
Meanwhile, the Blue Stockings were being battered, and their lead cut
down, until even old Pete Grist lost heart, and bewailed the missing
southpaw.
“Another week,” he groaned; “another week, and we’ve got to win four
games out of six to home, with no pitchers. If we get two of them games
we’ll do well. If we had Locke in trim we could take them. I’ll agree
to win my share. Carson has failed, and the old man’s sore. After all,
Kennedy was the best manager the Blue Stockings ever had.”
To make matters worse, Carson and Collier quarreled violently.
About this time Stillman, whose place had been filled by a cub for
nearly two weeks, came back, and interviewed Charles Collier. Although
the reporter had made his business a secret affair, more than one of
the Blue Stockings guessed that he was searching for Lefty Locke. Daily
the _Blade_ was scanned for some word which would indicate that the
clever reporter-detective had made progress in this search, and daily
those in looking for that word were disappointed. Stillman was taking
the chance of being scooped in order to spring a big sensation at the
most dramatic moment. He did not even dare tell his editor what he had
learned.
The almost hopeless fight of the Blue Stockings aroused the sympathy
of the fans, even while the management of Al Carson was bitterly
criticised, and also the judgment of Charles Collier in letting old
Jack Kennedy go in order to fill his place with a man like Carson.
Pete Grist had made good by winning two games of the last six. He even
saved another game when three of the battered pitchers had been pounded
out of the box. Then followed two defeats, and upon the day before the
final and deciding game was to be played Stillman sprang his sensation
in the _Blade_.
He announced that Carson had been permanently shelved by the owner of
the Blue Stockings, who had sent a distress call to the old manager,
Jack Kennedy, receiving in reply the assurance that Kennedy would be on
hand early in the morning, and would bring with him a cracking portside
pitcher by the name of Stranger, who had been doing marvelous work out
in the bushes.
Stillman wrote, in conclusion:
I’ve seen this Stranger pitch, and, believe me, he’s able to
deliver the goods. He’s the equal of Lefty Locke when Locke
was at his best. If Stranger can pitch a winning game for the
Stockings to-morrow, the championship is ours after all, and
old Jack Kennedy will have saved the day at the last moment.
Forty-eight hours before this article appeared in print, Lefty Locke,
pitching for the Deers, had, while batting in the ninth inning, been
hit full and fair on the head by a pitched ball delivered with all the
speed the man on the slab could command.
Locke sank to the ground without as much as a gasp. In a moment he was
surrounded by a number of his teammates. Kennedy lifted the stunned
man’s head, calling sharply for water.
“He ought to have a doctor,” said someone. “Perhaps his skull is
fractured.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” declared Locke, suddenly sitting up. “I’m all
right. A little tap like that never hurt anybody. Donovan hasn’t got
much speed to-day.”
“Donovan!” exclaimed Kennedy. “Why, that’s Colfax pitching.”
Locke looked at the old manager queerly. “Colfax?” he muttered. “Who’s
Colfax! Never heard of him. The Specters are ahead, aren’t they?”
“Where do you think you are?” choked Kennedy, his excitement growing.
“You’re playing the Semour Stars, out in the bush. You’re pitching for
the Deers, of Deering.”
It was Locke’s turn to appear bewildered. “I don’t think I get you
right,” he muttered blankly. “What are you doing here, anyhow? Carson
is managing the team now.”
“Not this team, he ain’t,” retorted old Jack. “Look here, Lefty, has
that bump on your bean put you right again? Who are you? What’s your
name?”
“Why, my name is Hazelton, though I’m playing the game as Tom Locke.
What a blame fool question, Kennedy!”
The old manager showed his satisfaction, and did a dance which caused
the crowd to stare at him in wonderment.
“You’re all right now, Lefty, old boy! You’ve got your noddle cleared
up by that bean ball. I’ll bet you got one on the koko some other time,
and that was what started you wrong to begin with.”
“Wrong? What do you mean? How wrong?” asked Locke, gazing around in
surprise at his strange and unfamiliar surroundings. “What am I doing
here?”
“Playing baseball. I told you a minute ago. You’re Bob Stranger.
Anyhow, that’s what you called yourself when you came to me, and you
swore you didn’t know how to pitch and had never seen a game of ball.”
“Jack, you’re stringing me. I don’t remember how I got here, but――”
“Play ball!” cried the umpire. “Shall we give you a runner, Stranger,
or will you stick in the game?”
“If you’re speaking to me,” returned Locke, “I’ll stick in the game.
That tap on the head didn’t jar me a bit.”
In proof of which, after jogging down to first, he stole second on the
first ball pitched to the next batter, and came home with the winning
run when a right-field single followed.
That night Kennedy did his best to explain everything to the
satisfaction of Locke.
“I wonder what the team thinks of me?” murmured Lefty. “They must
figure that I’m just about as yellow as Bert Elgin himself. I wouldn’t
quit because I was suspended――not in my right mind, anyhow. I don’t
blame Carson for being raw and letting me go.”
Kennedy pulled a yellow envelope from his pocket, and produced the
message it contained. “Carson’s done with the Blue Stockings, anyhow,”
he said. “Here’s a wire from Collier, asking me to come back and take
the management of the team. I can get there just in time for the last
game. If we win that game we get the pennant. What do you say, Lefty?
Will you pitch it?”
“Will I!” cried Locke. “All I want is the chance!”
“It’s yours,” declared Kennedy. “You’ll pitch, son.”