THE UNEXPECTED
“That’s not as easy as it sounds, considering that your scouts have
raked the field with a fine-tooth comb,” Lefty said slowly as Kennedy
awaited his answer. “Have you thought of Liddell, of Minneapolis?”
“Yes, but they’ve had a man drafted from ’em already. It’s the same
with McGargle, of St. Paul, and Jerry Knight, of the Internationals.”
“How about―― By Jove! There is a lad who might make good, Jack! He
pitched all last season on the Sharks, of the Seaboard League. I saw
one of the early games, and he was certainly there with the goods.
He kept it up, too, for I got interested in the boy and followed his
record. Name’s Temple――Gene Temple――and――”
“Oh, shucks!” interrupted Kennedy, in a disappointed tone. “I know
him. He’s nothing but a kid, Lefty. Only out of school a year or so.
Bushers need ripening, son. You’re one big exception, of course, but I
couldn’t expect that luck again in a hundred years. I’ve got all the
raw material I want――and more, too. What I’m after now is something
sure.”
“I’ve an idea you’d find this boy worth trying,” was the composed
reply; “and you can’t exactly call a Class A League the bushes. Wait
till I tell you a few things.”
Without waiting for the manager’s acquiescence, he proceeded to draw
from his exceptional memory facts and figures concerning the brief
career of this youth from a small Eastern college who had so aroused
his interest. Kennedy was bored at first, but soon became attentive.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Mebbe, as you say, he’s worth trying. We can
draft a man from that club, too. Hanged if I won’t do it――or, better
yet, I’ll let you put through the deal. I’ll have my hands full
locating a first baseman, and there isn’t any time to be lost.”
Now that his mind was made up, the manager wasted not a minute in
arranging the necessary details. Lefty happened to remember that Temple
came from one of the small Jersey towns not far from New York, and it
was natural to suppose that he would spend the winter at home. They
decided, therefore, that Locke should take the eastbound train which
passed through Deering in little more than an hour, and so save a good
twelve hours.
Word was sent out to the stableman to hitch up and have the cutter
around in half an hour, and the brief interval of waiting was well
occupied by a discussion of every possible candidate for the vacant
position at first. Lefty made a number of suggestions, and old Jack had
become really cheerful when the sound of sleigh bells brought them out
of their chairs.
“Mighty glad we’ve had this talk, Lefty,” said Kennedy, with a friendly
hand on Locke’s shoulder. “I feel better already. Nail this wonder of
yours. Best thing you can do is to bring him South with you. Training
for the cubs will start in about ten days, and I reckon you won’t mind
coming that early, will you?”
“Not a bit, if I can help any,” said Lefty, sliding into his heavy
overcoat. “Don’t come outside. It’s cold after sitting in front of that
fire. Good-by.”
He held out a hand, and Kennedy gripped it.
“So long!” cried the manager. “Remember, this Temple wonder is your
find, and if he falls down you can expect to be just about scalped by
your Uncle Dudley.”
“I’ll have to see that he makes good, then,” returned Lefty.
A moment later the door had closed behind him. He paused a second to
pull up the collar of his ulster, for it had begun to snow. A man was
coming up the veranda steps, his figure bulking indistinctly through
the flying flakes. Lefty wondered idly whether he could be the one
who was to drive him to the station, and, if so, why he had left
the cutter. The fellow stopped before him, and, with a quick intake
of astonishment, the Big League pitcher recognized the unpleasant,
evil eyes and rough-hewn features of the disgruntled busher he had
encountered on the train.
The recognition was mutual. Uttering an exclamation of triumph, Nelson
stepped swiftly forward, his fists clenched.
“So it’s you, is it?” he cried. “This is luck! You slipped away from me
before, but there ain’t nobody here to hide behind. Put up your hands!
Ain’t you got any nerve at all?”
So amazed was Lefty at the appearance of the fellow there, of all
places, that for a second or two he stood perfectly still, staring at
him.
“Say, have I got to lam you into showin’ a little fight?” fumed Nelson,
shaking a fist in Locke’s face. “If you don’t――”
He stopped abruptly as the door was jerked suddenly open to reveal the
spare figure of the Blue Stockings’ manager standing on the threshold,
his glance flashing from one to the other of the two men.
“Well,” old Jack inquired curtly, “what’s all this about, Savage? What
do you mean holding up Locke on his way to make a train?”
The busher’s blustering manner vanished with ludicrous swiftness before
the stern glare of Jack Kennedy. He dropped his lids, and, shuffling
his feet awkwardly, began a mumbled, halting explanation.
Of this Lefty heard scarcely a word. He was staring dazedly at the
flushed, sullen face of the embarrassed minor leaguer. What under the
sun did Jack mean by calling him Savage? He couldn’t be the new pitcher
of whom Kennedy had just been boasting. Distinctly Locke had heard the
Englishman on the train call him Nelson――not once, but several times.
“Well, beat it into the house, and I’ll talk to you directly,” came in
the manager’s sharp, incisive voice. “Now, Lefty,” he went on, when the
fellow had vanished, “what the deuce is up? You didn’t tell me you knew
him.”
Locke shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t until a few hours ago. I ran
into him on the train, and got mixed up in a little altercation. Did I
hear you call him Savage, Jack, or was I mistaken?”
“Sure, he’s Savage,” Kennedy answered. “Nelson Savage is the new
twirler I was telling you about. What you got against him, anyhow?”
Lefty’s lips parted, and then closed swiftly. “Oh, nothing,” he
answered, turning abruptly away. “I was surprised, that’s all. Thought
his name was Nelson. Time to get going, Jack. Good-by.”
He ran down the steps, and climbed quickly into the cutter waiting
there. Once out on the highroad, headed for the village, the driver
resumed his gossipy chat, but discovered his companion oddly reticent.
The truth was that Lefty found it impossible to keep his mind off
Kennedy’s new pitcher, and the more he thought about the fellow the
greater became his disapproval. Personally he was not in the least
troubled by the discovery that this Savage was destined to become
a rival. He could hold his own both on the diamond and off. But
dissension and ill feeling always play havoc with a ball team, and here
were both with a vengeance. Besides, Lefty’s opinion of the newcomer
was distinctly unfavorable. A man such as Savage had shown himself to
be was not at all the caliber of which first-rate Big League players
are made.
“I certainly hope Jack didn’t pick a lemon,” the twirler said to
himself, with a troubled frown; “but I’ll be hanged if it don’t look
that way.”