TWO RUNS BEHIND
“That’s the game!” cried McCormick, the visiting captain. “Get into it,
Rick. Here’s where we pull in a little old run or two. On your toes,
Irish.”
It was an excellent opportunity for a squeeze play, and as Allaire
hurried to the plate the infielders closed in, ready to go after the
ball the instant it was dumped into the diamond.
Savage, evidently believing that the squeeze would be attempted, handed
up a shoot, high and close. Allaire made a foul, and Olds was fully
halfway down the line before he could pull himself up and turn back to
the sack.
Returning to third, Olds edged off toward the plate, knees bent, every
muscle tense.
Savage flashed a glance at him, then got into position to pitch. He did
not start to deliver the ball, however, but, suddenly stepping toward
third, whipped it to Palsifer.
Three times Savage drove Olds back to the cushion, but when again he
pitched, the runner stretched his legs for the plate. Unfortunately
for him, Allaire simply popped a little fly into the pitcher’s hands,
and Savage, taking his time, threw it to third for a double.
The abrupt termination of the inning brought a grim smile to the lips
of Jack Kennedy, who, resting on one knee, with arms doubled under his
chest in a characteristic attitude, had been watching the progress
of the game. To him the result of the contest was of no importance
whatever. It was simply an opportunity to size up his players. Savage
had done nothing extraordinary, but he had kept his head and used it,
and that satisfied the manager for the present.
Buck Liddell, the slender, wiry, rather handsome pitcher for the
Tigers, bore himself in a confident manner, with just a trace of
self-consciousness. His wavy blond hair, worn rather long, had a way of
trailing down now and then over his forehead, to be tossed back by a
jerk of his head, or swept aside with a quick movement of his hand.
“Reckon he’s some bear with the Atlanta dames,” chuckled Joe Welsh, as
he stepped to the plate.
“Regular matinée idol,” agreed Kid Lewis, swinging a couple of bats.
Liddell nonchalantly sent a couple of sizzlers across to the first
baseman while the catcher was adjusting his mask and wind pad. They
fairly smoked, denoting that he had speed, at least. A moment later he
toed the slab, swung his arm in a wide sweep, balanced himself on one
foot for an instant, and shot over one which Welsh missed by inches.
The next had a hop on it and the batter fouled. Another foul followed
and the Big Leaguer recovered himself, a slight frown wrinkling his
forehead. When Liddell made ready to pitch again he went through the
movements which seemed to indicate great speed. But suddenly, following
those movements, he sent in a ball that seemed to drag and hang in the
air. Welsh, who a month later would have called it a cinch, was fooled
like any youngster, and struck too soon.
“You’re out!” said the umpire.
“What’s he got, Joe?” asked Lewis in passing.
“Mostly speed and a change of pace. Look out for that.”
Lewis made a bid for a hit off the second ball pitched to him. It was
a snappy grounder, hugging the sod, but the shortstop made a splendid
one-handed stop, whipping the ball to first for a put-out.
Rufe Hyland did better, dropping a fly over the infield, and romping
to first with ease. With the first ball pitched to Dalton, Rufe was
off down the base line. Thanks to a high throw on the part of the
backstop, he made the sack; and his teammates began to root for a run,
urging Dalton to smash out one of the two-baggers which had been his
speciality during the previous season.
But Laughing Larry had not regained his batting form of six months
before. The best he could do was to lift out a long fly which the
opposing left fielder secured without any great expenditure of effort;
and the Tigers romped in, pleased by the manner in which they had held
down the famous Blue Stockings.
The latter did not seem to be seriously disturbed at the way things
were going. There was a lot of josh and banter as they spread out on
the diamond. They remembered that they had been in training for little
more than two weeks, whereas their opponents, bushers though they were,
had been playing the game much longer. They knew that a few weeks hence
they would be able easily to beat a team twice as good as this one.
But when, in the second inning, through a series of fielding errors,
combined with a strong hitting streak on the part of the Tigers, the
latter managed to push two men across the rubber, the pride of the Blue
Stockings began to be touched.
“It’s up to us to wake up,” Dalton remarked, with his infectious grin.
“Reckon we’ve been taking things too easy. Oh, you’re all right, kid,”
he added, catching Savage’s eye. “You’ve got the goods. It’s the rest
of us dubs that have been loafing on hits and pegging wild. Suppose
we try a dash of pepper.” His gaze shifted around the circle, coming
to rest for an instant on the face of Jack Kennedy, who stood within
hearing distance. “I guess it won’t hurt anybody, to perk up a mite and
show this crowd that we’re not all down with the Charley horse.”
The manager nodded. “Get after their pitcher the moment he lets up,”
was his advice. “He won’t last nine innings. He’s putting every blamed
thing he’s got on the ball now, and it’s going to wear him out before
long.”