BACK TO HIS OWN
Not once in a thousand times does such a remarkable situation arise in
Big League baseball. Not once in a thousand times would it happen that
the two leading teams should be scheduled to play off the last three
games of the season together, and have the championship depend upon the
result of the final game, which would leave one or the other of those
teams in the lead by a very small percentage.
To down the Blue Stockings the Specters had to win three straight, and
when they had taken the first two the entire baseball world was thrown
into a great tumult of excitement, to say nothing of the home city of
the Blue Stockings. That city was in a perfect panic, so that business
generally was tremendously effected, and all one could hear talked
anywhere he went was baseball, baseball, baseball.
The newspapers were crammed with it. They were almost savage in their
denouncement of the new owner and his judgment in displacing Jack
Kennedy and filling the position with a manager like Al Carson.
Half of them prophesied that the Specters would take the last
three straight, and cop the pennant without difficulty. A few held
desperately to the tattered border of hope, begging the Blue Stockings
to brace up and save the day by winning the final game.
But even as they did this, they confessed that the team’s staff of
pitchers was all to the bad, with no one in condition save old Pete
Grist, who had already won two games out of the double series of the
final week, and was therefore unable to attempt to pitch another game.
On the other hand, the Specters had Donovan in reserve, and during the
season Donovan had made a record scarcely second to any Big League
pitcher. The baseball “dope” in the papers was certainly interesting
enough to a genuine fan, though it must have seemed maddening to a
reader who cared nothing whatever for the game.
Then came the sensation sprung by Stillman in the _Blade_. It made
readers generally sit up and take notice. The other newspapers had been
“scooped.” Stillman’s sense of the dramatic and his judgment regarding
the psychological moment had stood him and his paper in good stead.
And when, just as the game was beginning the following day, the
_Blade_ appeared with the statement that the pitcher called Stranger,
whom Kennedy had brought with him, was none other than Lefty Locke
himself, following with a most cleverly written explanation of the
cause of Lefty’s vanishing, a complete account of his chance meeting
with Kennedy, and how he had pitched in the bush league, winning the
championship for the Deers, the scoop was complete.
Never in the history of the game in that city had such a crowd swarmed
to the ball park. At daylight a dozen or more tired, sleepy-looking
men and boys were seen in line at the bleacher gates, waiting in order
that they might be the first to gain admittance and so secure favorable
positions. Before eleven o’clock in the forenoon two or three hundred
people were waiting at those gates, and the steady influx began when
the gates were finally opened ahead of time at twelve-thirty.
Fortunately the police department was on the job, and the crowds were
handled beautifully outside the grounds. On the field, at least forty
policemen found themselves busy when at last the stands and bleachers
overflowed, and the people began to swarm into the field back of the
ropes, which had been stretched in anticipation of this very occurrence.
It was, however, a remarkably tractable crowd. Even those who had
bought seats in the stand and found those seats occupied, as well as
the bleachers packed――being compelled, therefore, to stand in the jam
back of the ropes――were good-natured, few complaining.
This was the day――the great day! Jack Kennedy had come back, and
brought with him Lefty Locke. They were waiting for Kennedy and Locke
to appear, and as they waited they choked down and held back the cheer
which welled from their rejoicing hearts. Presently from the clubhouse
the Specters came pushing through the gathering mass of people, and
burst upon the field. They were given an ovation by their admirers.
Two minutes later there was a tremendous stir all through the stands,
running over the bleachers and into the group of standees. Escorted by
six policemen, Kennedy and Locke were coming, with the Blue Stocking
players at their heels. Other policemen fought the crowd back, and made
a lane for them to pass through.
And when they debouched from that lane upon the open space of the field
inside the ropes, it seemed that every human being upon the bleachers
and in the stands had risen and was howling like a maniac. Such a solid
roar, such a tremendous burst of sound coming from human throats,
perhaps never was heard save at some gladiatorial contest in the Roman
Colosseum. It beat and reverberated upon the eardrums with painful
fierceness, causing more than one person to protect himself from the
staggering effect of it by clapping his hands over his ears. And it
continued while old Jack, bareheaded, with Lefty Locke at his side,
marched from the ropes to the bench, his face pale, his eyes shining,
his lips smiling.
“They’re glad to get you back, Jack,” shouted Lefty in the old man’s
ear.
“You blame fool!” yelled Kennedy in return. “They’re not cheering for
me. It’s you, boy――you, the man who’s going to give the Blue Stockings
another pennant. Pull off your cap――pull it off! Bow! Bow!”
For a moment there was a blur over Lefty’s eyes. Through it he
could dimly see the wildly tumultuous mass in the stands and on the
bleachers. Mechanically he lifted his hand――his left hand――and touched
his cap. And when he did so the great roar suddenly was intensified for
an instant, although it had previously seemed that every person present
was shouting as loudly as he could.
When Locke had reached the shelter of the covered bench, into which
he dived for a few moments as one seeking to escape a deadly hail of
bullets, he laughed again――queerly, incredulously.
“It can’t be for me,” he muttered. “Why, I’m――I’m only a cub
yet――nothing but a busher.”
Kennedy was at his side. “You’ll show whether you’re a busher or a Big
League pitcher to-day, Lefty,” he said. “If you let this reception get
your goat, then your name is Mud. But if you can go out there and pitch
a winning game, nobody in fast company has got it on you.”
“Give me two minutes,” said Locke, gripping himself; “give me two
minutes, and I’ll show you.”
“Good boy!” said old Jack. “Come out and warm up when you get ready.”
He left Locke there, and went forth among his men, all of whom had
greeted him on his return as rejoicing children might greet a beloved
parent; and every one of whom had shaken the hand of Lefty Locke until
Lefty’s arm seemed ready to come off. Not even Pete Grist had held
back. Far from it. Old Pete was among the first to strike palms with
the southpaw.
“The prodigal son!” he cried. “The prodigal son back home! Welcome to
our midst, Lefty. We’re going to let you kill the fatted calf this
afternoon――the Specters, you know.”
“That’s kind of you, Grist, old man,” said Locke. “I’ve brought my
little butcher knife with me, and I’m going to sink it to the hilt if I
can.”
As old Jack came out again from beneath the bench roof, here and there
friends in the crowd shouted at him, but now he seemed deaf to all this
as he went at work amid his men, directing them as of old, keeping
them on the jump, filling them with inspiration and confidence.
“Hey, Jack! You’re the old man to do it!”
“Kennedy, you can deliver the goods! You did it once, and you will
again.”
“Welcome to our city, Mr. Kennedy! We have missed you.”
“Oh, say, Jack, old boy, you look good to me!”
But these cries were faint compared with the renewed chorus of shouts
which arose when Lefty Locke, flushed, yet steady and self-possessed,
again stepped forth into view.
“Oh, you Lefty! Oh, you southpaw!”
“You’re the kiddo! You’re the Specter slayer!”
“How’s your wing, Lefty?”
“Got your batting eye with you?”
“Lefty, don’t you dare ever leave us again. You’re home with your own
family now.”
Kennedy, glancing sidewise at Locke, to notice the effect of this
revived demonstration, was well satisfied. Not by a flicker did the
southpaw betray the emotion of satisfaction with which his heart must
have been filled. He was steady as Gibraltar, and cool as polar ice.