SUSPENSE
McKnight, the second baseman, was up, and ready. A successful bunt or a
long sacrifice fly would give McCormick a chance to register.
Savage took the signal from Nelson, and nodded. His face was no longer
pale, but his jaws were hard, and his lips set in a straight line.
The sphere cut the air, passing high with a slight inswerve, and
McKnight’s attempt to bunt was a failure.
McCormick was sent diving back to third by Nelson, who whipped the ball
to Palsifer. The runner managed to reach the sack, but it was by a
desperately narrow margin.
The infielders had crept up into the diamond, and were balancing
on their toes. Lefty’s heart was pounding; his eyes never left the
pitcher’s face.
A second time Savage put the ball over high and close, with that
same inswerve. Though the batter again did his best to bunt, he only
succeeded in making a small foul.
“Got him, Nels――got him!” cried Laughing Larry. “He’s in a hole now.”
McKnight spread his legs, and, taking a fresh grip on the bat, waited
for a good one――waited too long. Savage started the ball high. The man
at bat evidently fancied it would pass above his shoulders. Too late he
saw it take a marvelous drop, shooting down across his chest.
“Three――you’re out!”
Lefty drew a breath of relief, and his tense muscles relaxed. Savage
was evidently still there with the goods. Perhaps that inexplicable
lapse had been only momentary. Perhaps the thing Locke dreaded had not
come, after all.
Wurts, the next man up, took his place at the pan, bat held loosely.
Once more Savage kept the ball high and close, and put it over with
speed. Like his predecessor, the Tiger backstop bunted a foul.
A wide one followed, which Wurts made no effort to reach. Then came
another of those amazing drops, and the batter found himself fooled
even as McKnight had been. He failed to strike when the ball cut across
his shoulders and breast. An outcurve followed, and was disdained. A
moment later, however, he whiffed fruitlessly at a spitter.
“Reckon he’s on an even keel again,” the southpaw murmured under his
breath. “Now, if he can only put the kibosh on this bird he’ll be all
right.”
Few professional pitchers are good batsmen, but there are exceptions,
and Liddell had proved himself one of them. His performance with the
stick earlier in the game had been admirable, and he advanced to the
plate now with determination written all over his slightly supercilious
face.
How he missed the first ball was evidently a puzzle to him. He swung at
it as if he felt quite certain of meeting it fairly and squarely, and
his failure brought a ludicrous look of surprise to his face.
Savage was not faltering now. He wasted no time, nor did he hurry
unduly. He put over a curve which fooled Liddell even more than the
first one.
“Great work, old man!” cried Dalton. “You can sure put it on that
little old pill to-day.”
For an instant the rival twirlers faced each other in silence.
Liddell’s air of superciliousness had vanished; he was biting his
lip as he gripped his stick. Savage still wore that expression of
grim determination, but his lids were drooping slightly, and for a
second Locke was unpleasantly reminded of the fellow’s manner two
weeks before, when he had tried the vanishing ball. He thrust the
recollection from his mind as the recruit pitched.
Liddell’s judgment told him that the ball would cut a corner when it
broke. He was not mistaken in thinking it would be good, but instead of
crossing the outside corner, it took such a sharp shoot that it barely
clipped the inside of the rubber.
“Out!” announced the umpire.
Hurling his bat to the ground, the handsome pitcher strode out to the
mound in a very unbecoming state of temper.
Lefty moved a little farther over to intercept Savage, who came slowly
in, head bent over the glove he was apparently examining.
“You pulled out of that hole fine, old man,” Locke said, as soon as the
other was within earshot.
Savage raised his head for an instant, showing a face which was still
rather serious. His eyes were perfectly normal, however, and Locke
decided that he must still be troubled over that momentary slump.
“Had to,” returned the Westerner briefly. “No business to get into it.”
Locke smiled. “What was the matter?”
The recruit’s eyes dropped again to the glove, which Lefty saw to be
ripped along one side.
“Oh, nothing special,” he answered vaguely. “Just carelessness, I
reckon.”
“We all do it now and then,” consoled the portsider. “What’s up now?”
he asked, as Savage passed the bench and headed for one end of the
grand stand.
“Going to get another glove,” explained the Westerner over his
shoulder. “This is on the blink. I’ve got a good one stowed away in the
dressing room.”
Locke nodded, pausing by the bench long enough to see his friend reach
the end of the stands and disappear through a door leading to a small,
rough sort of dressing room occupying part of the space beneath the
seats. It was never used for that purpose by the Blue Stocking crowd,
who always changed at the hotel, but it made an admirable storage place
for bats, balls, spare gloves, and all the other paraphernalia of the
game. The southpaw’s attention was swiftly recalled to the field, and
there it remained for the better part of ten minutes.
Whether or not Liddell’s predicted downfall had been hurried by his
experience at the bat, or was simply due at this time, there could be
no doubt whatever that it had come. The first man up hit him, and those
who followed continued the work gleefully. Before another man could be
hustled into the box they had made three runs, and ere the pitcher’s
successor had worked the kinks out of his arm two more were added. The
inning ended with the Blue Stockings five tallies in the lead.
“That’s more like it,” said Dalton, as the visitors came slowly in from
the field. “That’s the way it ought to be. Come ahead, fellows; we’ll
hold ’em down this inning, and see if we can’t put the blanket on this
new pill slinger. Get a move on, Nels.”
Lefty turned in time to see Savage rise slowly from the ground a little
to one side of the bench, where he had apparently been sitting since
his return from the dressing room. As he passed, on his way to the
mound, he not only failed to glance at the southpaw or speak a word,
but seemed actually to be averting his head.
The unnaturalness of the proceeding at once struck Locke, keyed up
as he was by the busher’s inexplicable slump in the last inning. An
instant later he drew a quick breath as the unmistakable reek of liquor
was borne to his nostrils, and he stared after Savage, his face full of
deepest apprehension.
“Whew!” he whistled, “the crazy idiot went off to take a drink. Now the
deuce is to pay!”