THE LAST STRAW
Stillman recovered from his surprise just in time to observe the brief,
fierce spasm of rage which seized Savage. He had partly turned, and
stood, hands clenched and muscles tense, staring at Locke, running
down the base line. There was stamped on the rough-hewn profile a look
of mingled astonishment and bitter hate which made even the hardened
newspaper man feel a little tingle along his spine.
For a fraction of a minute the baffled pitcher stood motionless. Then,
with machinelike precision, he wheeled full around, deftly caught the
ball lined in by one of the youthful volunteer fielders, and faced the
next batter without having uttered a word.
“By Jove!” murmured the reporter under his breath. “He’s sure got it in
for Lefty.”
Stillman cut away from Kennedy as soon as he could after batting
practice was over, and made for the spot where Lefty was preparing to
limber up his arm over by the stand.
“You certainly need a good tanning, you big bluff!” he said as he came
up.
The southpaw grinned. “Pretty good, wasn’t I?”
“Too good! You had me all up in the air, thinking it was real.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that glassy-eye stuff took you in when you
knew what was doing?”
“We didn’t rehearse that part,” explained the reporter, “so I wasn’t
expecting it. Besides, it would be just like your crazy ways to chance
doing what I told you not to, just to see what would happen.”
Locke’s smile widened and took on a touch of chagrin. “That’s just what
I did do――and, say, that gentleman has got some hypnotic eye, believe
me! He was working it overtime to-day, too. If I hadn’t looked away
when I did there’d been nothing doing for mine.”
“Then I did guess right? He was trying to work it again to-day?”
“Trying his best. Say, did you see his face when he discovered how I’d
been stringing him along? Some temper there, eh?”
“You bet!” The reporter’s tone was emphatic. “You want to keep an eye
on him, old man. I don’t believe he’s got a scruple to his name.”
“Don’t worry,” put in Locke. “He’s had a thrashing coming for some
time, and I’m willing to be the one to hand it to him. Well, now we’ve
found out about this, what are we going to do?”
This seemingly simple question proved difficult to answer. In setting
the little trap for Savage, the two friends had been animated
altogether by a desire for personal information. They had sought to
know what it was that enabled the busher to perform those almost
uncanny feats. And now, having found out, they were rather at a loss as
to what to do with their information.
Satisfied though they might be regarding the nature of the man’s
remarkable power, they were unwilling to place themselves open to the
ridicule and disbelief with which ninety-nine persons out of a hundred
would greet such a story.
After dinner, Lefty, Stillman, and Larry Dalton retired to a corner
of the lobby to discuss this question. Their arguments were warm and
lengthy, and for the better part of the evening they remained oblivious
to much of what was going on about them. They finally decided to hold
off any action until the power on other players of this surprising
talent of the bush pitcher had been tested further. Then Kennedy
appeared before them, his face far from amiable.
“Any idea where that sweet-scented geranium, Savage, has taken
himself?” he inquired.
“Might be playing pool,” Dalton suggested. “I saw him go in there with
Ogan after dinner.”
Kennedy shook his head. “He ain’t. Charley, the marker, says he
finished his game and came out over an hour ago.”
“Want us to take a look around for him?” inquired Lefty, with no great
show of enthusiasm. A glance at the clock had shown him the hour hand
close to eleven, and the discovery seemed to bring on a sudden yearning
for bed.
“No!” was the almost snappy retort. “The common scruff’s off tanking up
again, I reckon. If he is”――the lean jaws tightened, and the dark eyes
snapped ominously――“it’s going to be the last time. You boys better hit
the straw. Look at the hour.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, apparently heedless of whether
his advice was taken or not. Tramping upstairs, he turned into the room
next his own, and walked straight over to one of the windows looking
out on the side of the hotel. His exploring fingers encountered a stout
cord hanging limply over the sill.
“The cheap, low-down tank!” he growled. “This is the end of him. I’ve
coddled him along all I’m going to. I don’t give a hang whether I’m shy
on working pitchers or not. I’ll tie the can on him to-morrow, an’ if
every decent manager I know don’t hear the jangle of it I’ll certainly
be some surprised.”