A THING INCREDIBLE
It was not strange that Lefty gasped and stared in utter amazement. The
thing was uncanny――impossible! It made him feel for an instant as if
something had happened to his brain――some twist or kink in the nerves
of vision. In the flash of time before he got a grip on himself he felt
vividly the staggering nature of such a thing happening at the crucial
moment of a real game instead of a time like this, when nothing really
mattered.
“Great Scott, Lefty,” came suddenly from Dalton, in a decidedly peevish
voice, “you’re certainly a pippin, throwing away the game like that!
Why didn’t you come out of your trance and baste that last one? It cut
the pan in halves.”
Locke swung his bat carelessly in the direction of the pile, and turned
to his chum, with a laugh.
“Sorry, old man,” he said. “That curve fooled me, that’s all.”
He made no effort to lower his voice, glancing coolly at Savage,
who was coming in from the box. The pitcher’s eyes held a gleam of
triumph and derision, which brought a touch of color to Lefty’s face,
and roused in him a longing to get even with this fellow for the
humiliation.
“Curve!” cried Dalton. “It was straight, and it didn’t have anything on
it but the cover.”
The southpaw moved closer to his friend. His manner was casual and
indifferent, but in his eyes was a look of earnestness which instantly
caught the infielder’s attention and held it.
“Nothing on it!” murmured Locke lightly. “Larry, if Savage could turn
that trick at will, he’d be the greatest pitcher the world has ever
seen.”
He paused an instant and glanced around. Most of the players were
heading toward the gate, for it was after eleven, and they were in a
hurry for their shower, rubdown, and lunch. Dillon stood at a little
distance, however, talking with Kennedy, while Kid Lewis was staring
at the southpaw from near the bench. Catching his eye, Lefty waved him
over.
“You don’t understand what I mean, Larry,” Lefty said, in a low tone.
“Nobody could who hadn’t been through the same thing. Don’t ask any
questions until I’ve talked with Kid; then I’ll tell you all about it.”
Without waiting for Dalton to speak, Lefty turned toward the approaching
shortstop.
“Say, Kid,” he asked lightly, “what’s the matter with your eyes? How’d
it happen you didn’t swing when Savage whipped over a straight one
twice for the third strike?”
The shortstop’s eyes narrowed, and he scowled. “See here, Locke,” he
snapped, in the tone of one driven to the limit of irritability, “do I
look weak in the garret? Anybody ever hint I was ready for the foolish
foundry? There ain’t nothing wrong with my eyes; they was examined by
the best doctor in New York, and found O. K. Savage balked both times
Dillon called me out. I saw him wind up and stop, glaring at me like he
could chaw me up; he didn’t pitch the ball either time. Torrey smacks
his fist into his mitt, and then shows another ball. Then everybody
tries to make me think I’ve been asleep. Fine work! Nice little joke!
But I never thought Kennedy would stand in on anything so piffling and
childish.”
His jaws snapped shut over the last words like the slam of a door in a
person’s face; turning on his heel, he marched off across the field.
As Grist had remarked that afternoon, the shortstop was prone to make
excuses for poor stickwork and errors, but aside from that he was a
decent, good-natured chap. Evidently the supposed trick, with its
resulting banter, had worked him up to the point of exploding, Lefty’s
question being all that was needed to fire the fuse.
“What’s it all about?” Dalton suddenly inquired. “Don’t keep a fellow
in suspenders. What’s all this bunk about a game being put up on Kid?
Is he crazy, or just sore?”
Lefty turned to his friend, his face serious. “It’s simply this, Larry:
Three times to-day――twice with Lewis, and once with me――Savage has
pitched a ball the batter couldn’t see.”
“Couldn’t see! You mean he sneaked it over?”
“Nothing of the sort. I mean, from the batter’s point of view, the ball
was invisible.”
Dalton’s jaw sagged, and he stared oddly at his friend. “You don’t
happen to be――in earnest, do you?” he asked, in a queer voice.
“Quite,” Locke smiled faintly. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s a
fact. Listen now, and I’ll tell you.”
When he had finished a brief, but comprehensive, account of the
inexplicable incident Dalton’s mouth and eyes were open to their widest
extent.
“Queerest thing I ever heard tell of,” he commented dazedly at last,
running the fingers of one hand through his thick, curly hair. “I don’t
mean to doubt your word, old man, but――an invisible ball! Why, that’s
wilder than the worst nature fake ever doped out by a cub reporter. You
haven’t thought of any sane explanation of the thing, have you?”
Lefty hesitated, a slight flush creeping into his face. “I don’t know
whether you’d call it sane or not,” he answered slowly, feeling
decidedly foolish and fully expecting his friend to burst into a roar
of derisive laughter, “but it’s the only one I can think of. Do you
suppose he could have done it by――some sort of hypnotism?”
“Hypnotism!” exclaimed Dalton. “Why, look at the distance he was away
from you! How the deuce could he pull off a stunt like that? They
always have to look you square in the eyes and make a lot of motions
with their hands, and all that.”
“Not always. I don’t know much about it except the little I’ve read,
but it is claimed that sometimes Oriental magicians can hypnotize a
whole crowd at once, and make them believe something is happening
which isn’t at all. Of course, Savage isn’t an East Indian, but he’s
certainly got queer eyes that make you think he might do things like
that.”
“You’ve got me,” Dalton admitted in a bewildered tone. “When you come
to discussing East Indian wizards and their tricks, just count me out;
I don’t know anything about ’em.”
He paused an instant, a smile struggling through the puzzled lines in
his face. “If the same thing hadn’t happened to two of you,” he went
on, his eyes twinkling, “I’d have laid it to a touch of biliousness.
That puts a chap on the bum as quick as anything. As it is, though――
Look here, Lefty, Jack Stillman’s got a head on his shoulders. He’s
heading this way now. You don’t mind his knowing, do you?”
Locke shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I suppose not,” he returned slowly.
“I’m not keen about having every one know the kind of trick that was
put over on me.”
To tell the truth, the southpaw was humiliated by the possibility that
he had been hypnotized by such a character as Nelson Savage. It was
only natural, of course. No man cares to admit that he can be, even for
a moment, brought under the influence of another person. There is a
general conviction, which is much more widespread than true, that such
succumbing is proof of a weaker intellect. It was this feeling that
brought to the southpaw a sense of shame――concealed under the guise of
light indifference, but none the less poignant――and made him disposed
to shrink from telling even so close a friend as the newspaper man.