THE MAGNETIZED BALL
"What are your plans?" asked Janet, after they had discussed the
situation in all its phases. "Have you decided on anything?"
The southpaw answered: "I'm going to put Jack Kennedy wise. I'm
going to write him a letter to-night, and I shall send him a telegram
as soon as the office opens in the morning. It's up to him to get in
communication with Collier if there's any way of doing it. You have
not received a letter from Virginia lately?"
Virginia Collier, the charming daughter of the owner of the Blue
Stockings, was Janet's closest friend.
"No, I have not heard from her in over three weeks, and I don't
understand it," returned his wife.
"She seems to have stepped off the map, along with her father. The whole
business is mysterious. Why don't you write her at once, explaining
what is going on, and send the letter to her last address?"
"I will."
"It may not reach her, but there's no harm in trying. Meanwhile, I'll
get busy on mine to Kennedy. There doesn't seem to be much chance to
spike Weegman's guns, but it's worth trying."
Locke had the knack of writing a succinct letter; the one he wrote old
Jack was concise, yet it was clear and complete. Within two minutes after
opening it, doubtless Kennedy would know as much about the situation
as did Lefty himself. Yet it was probable that, like the pitcher, the
manager would be mystified by the surprising and seemingly sinister
maneuvers of Bailey Weegman.
Following Lefty's advice, Janet wrote to Virginia Collier.
Locke rose early the following morning and posted the letters for the
first outward mail. He sent a telegram also. Returning past the Magnolia
Hotel, to his surprise he perceived Collier's private secretary sitting
on the veranda, smoking. Weegman beamed and chuckled.
"Morning," he cried, waving his cigar between two fingers. "The
early bird, eh? Been firing off a little correspondence, I presume.
Our communications will reach Kennedy in the same mail; and I wired him,
too. Quite a little jolt for the old man, but it can't be helped. Of
course, he'll have the sense to bow gracefully to the inevitable,
and that will clear the air. Afterward, perhaps, you may change your
mind regarding my offer."
"Perhaps so," returned Lefty pleasantly. "But if I do, I shall be
a fit subject for a padded cell." The agreeable look was wiped from
Weegman's face as Locke passed on.
Some time after breakfast Lefty returned to the Magnolia to learn if
Cap'n Wiley and his ball players had arrived. Approaching, he perceived
a queer assortment of strangers lounging on the veranda, and from
their appearance he judged that they were members of the team. Many
of them looked like old stagers, veterans who had seen better days;
some were youthful and raw and inclined to be cock-a-hoop. There was
a German, an Italian, an Irishman, and a Swede. One was lanky as a
starved greyhound, and apparently somewhere near six feet and six
inches tall from his heels to his hair roots. Another was short and fat,
and looked as if he had been driven together by some one who had hit
him over the head with a board.
In a way, these strangers in Fernandon were most remarkable for their
attire. With scarcely an exception, the clothes they wore were weird and
fantastic samples of sartorial art; various, and nearly all, prevailing
freaks of fashion were displayed. With colored shirts, flaring socks,
and giddy neckties, they caused all beholders to gasp. They were most
amazingly bejeweled and adorned. With difficulty Locke suppressed a smile
as his quick eyes surveyed them.
Near the head of the broad steps leading up to the veranda sat a
somewhat stocky but exceptionally well-built man of uncertain age.
He was almost as swarthy as an Indian, and his dark eyes were swift
and keen and shrewd. His black hair was graying on the temples. His
coat and trousers, of extravagant cut, were made from pronounced
black-and-white-striped material. His fancy waistcoat, buttoned with a
single button at the bottom, was adorned with large orange-colored
figures. His silk socks were red, his four-in-hand necktie was purple,
and the band that encircled the straw hat cocked rakishly upon his
head was green. He was smoking a cigar and pouring a steady flow of
words into the ear of Bailey Weegman, who made a pretense of not
noticing Locke.
"Yes, mate," he was saying, "old man Breckenridge was the most
painfully inconsiderate batter I ever had the misfortune to pitch
against. Smoke, curves, twisters, slow balls, low balls, and high
balls--they all looked alike to him. Now I have a preference; I prefer
a high ball, Scotch and carbonic. But it made no difference to Breck;
when he put his fifty-five-ounce ash wand against the pill, said pill
made a pilgrimage--it journeyed right away to some land distant and
remote and unknown, and it did not stay upon the order of its going.
When it came right down to slugging, compared with old Breck your
Home-run Bakers and Honus Wagners and Napoleon Lajoies are puny and
faded shines. And he always seemed able to make connections when he
desired; if he rambled forth to the dish yearning for a hit, there was
no known method by which the most astute and talented pitcher could
prevent him from hitting."
"Quite a wonder, I must admit!" laughed Weegman, in high amusement.
"Rather strange the Big Leagues didn't get hold of such a marvelous
batsman, isn't it?"
"Oh, he was on the roster of some Class A team at various times,
but he had one drawback that finally sent him away to the remote and
uncharted bushes: 'Charley horse' had him in its invidious grip. A
spavined snail could beat Breck making the circuit of the sacks, and
cross the pan pulled up. Yet, with this handicap, the noble old slugger
held the record for home runs in the Tall Grass League. Naturally I had
heart failure and Angie Pectoris every time I was compelled to face him
on the slab. Likewise, naturally I began meditating with great vigor upon
a scheme to circumvent the old terror, and at last my colossal brain
concocted a plan that led me to chortle with joy."
"I am deeply interested and curious," declared Weegman, as the narrator
paused, puffing complacently at his weed. "Go on."
Locke had stopped near at hand, and was listening. Others were hovering
about, their ears open, their faces wreathed in smiles.
"It was a simple matter of scientific knowledge and a little
skulduggery," pursued the story-teller obligingly. "I possessed the
knowledge, and I bribed the bat boy of old Breck's team to perform the
skulduggery. I sent to the factory and had some special baseballs
manufactured for me, and in the heart of each ball was hidden a tiny but
powerful magnet. Then I secretly furnished the rascally bat boy with a
specially prepared steel rod that would violently repel any magnet
that chanced to wander around into the immediate vicinity of the rod. I
instructed the boy to bore Breck's pet bat surreptitiously when the
shades of night had fallen, insert the steel rod, and then craftily
plug the hole. And may I never sail the briny deep again if that
little scoundrel didn't carry out my instructions with the skill of a
cutthroat, or a diplomat, even! Nature intended him for higher things.
If he isn't hanged some day it won't be his fault.
"Well, the next time old Breck brought his team to play against us
upon our field, I used the magnetized baseballs. I was doing the hurling
and in the very first inning the old swatter came up with the sacks
charged and two out. He smiled a smile of pity as he bent his baleful
glance upon me. 'You'd better walk me, Walter,' says he, 'and
force a run; for if you put the spheroid over I'm going to give it a
long ride.' I returned his smile with one of the most magnanimous
contempt. 'Don't blow up, old boy,' says I. 'With the exception of
your batting, you're all in; and I've a notion that your batting eye is
becoming dim and hazy. Let's see you hit this.' Then I passed him a
slow, straight one right over the middle of the rubber. He took a mighty
swing at it, meaning to slam it over into the next county. Well, mate,
may I be keelhauled if that ball didn't dodge the bat like a scared
rabbit! Mind you, I hadn't put a thing on it, but the repulsion of
that deneoutronized steel rod hidden in the bat forced the ball to
take the handsomest drop you ever beheld, and the violence with which
old Breck smote the vacant ozone caused him to spin round and concuss
upon the ground when he sat down. It was a tremendous shock to his
nervous system, and it filled me with unbounded jubilance; for I knew I
had him at my mercy, literally in the hollow of my hand.
"He rose painfully, chagrined and annoyed, but still confident. 'Give
me another like that, you little wart!' he ordered savagely, 'and I'll
knock the peeling off it.' Beaming, I retorted: 'You couldn't knock
the peeling off a prune. Here's what you called for.' And I threw him
another slow, straight one.
"Excuse these few tears; the memory of that hallowed occasion makes
me cry for joy. He did it again, concussing still more shockingly when
he sat down. It was simply an utter impossibility for him to hit that
magnetized ball with his doctored bat. But, of course, he didn't know
what the matter was; he thought I was fooling him with some sort of a
new drop I had discovered. The fact that I was passing him the merry
cachinnation peeved him vastly. When he got upon his pins and squared
away for the third attempt, his face was the most fearsome I ever have
gazed upon. He shook his big bat at me. 'One more,' he raged; 'give me
one more, and drop flat on your face the moment you pitch the ball, or
I'll drive it straight through the meridian of your anatomy!'
"Let me tell you now, mate, that Breck was a gentleman, and that was
the first and only time I ever knew him to lose his temper. Under the
circumstances, he was excusable. I put all my nerve-shattering steam into
the next pitch, and, instead of dropping, the ball hopped over his
bat when he smote at it. I had fanned the mighty Breckenridge, and
the wondering crowd lifted their voices in hosannas. Yet I know they
regarded it in the nature of an accident, and not until I had whiffed
him three times more in the same game did either Breck or the spectators
arrive at the conviction that I had something on him.
"After that," said the narrator, as if in conclusion, "I had him
eating out of my hand right up to the final and decisive game of the
season."
Weegman begged the fanciful romancer to tell what happened in the last
game.
"Oh, we won," was the assurance; "but we never would have if Breck
had been wise the last time he came to bat. It was in the ninth inning,
with the score three to two in our favor, two down, and runners on
second and third. Knowing it was Breck's turn to hit, I was confident
we had the game sewed up. But the confidence oozed out of me all of a
sudden when I saw the big fellow paw the clubs over to select a bat
other than his own. Clammy perspiration started forth from every pore
of my body. With any other swat stick beside his own, I knew he was
practically sure to drive any ball I could pitch him over the fence.
The agony of apprehension which I endured at that moment gave me my
first gray hairs.
"Although I did not know it at the time, it chanced that Breck had
selected the bat of another player who had had it bored and loaded with
an ordinary steel rod. This, you can clearly understand, made it more
than doubly certain that he would hit the magnetized ball, which would
be attracted instead of repelled. Had I known this, I shouldn't have
had the heart to pitch at all.
"As the noble warrior stood up to the pan, I considered what I could
pitch him. Curves could not fool him, and he literally ate speed.
Therefore, without hope, I tossed him up a slow one. Now it chanced that
the old boy had decided to try a surprise, having become disheartened by
his efforts to slug; he had resolved to attempt to bunt, knowing such a
move would be unexpected. So he merely stuck out his bat as the sphere
came sailing over. The magnet was attracted by the steel rod, and the
ball just jumped at the bat, against which it struck--and stuck! I
hope never to tell the truth again, mate, if I'm not stating a simple,
unadulterated, unvarnished fact. The moment the ball touched the bat it
stuck fast to it as if nailed there. Breck was so astonished that he
stood in his tracks staring at the ball like a man turned to stone. I
was likewise paralyzed for an extemporaneous fraction of time, but my
ready wit quickly availed me. Bounding forward, I wrenched the ball from
the bat and tagged old Breck with it, appealing to the umpire for
judgment. There was only one thing his umps could do. He had seen the
batter attempt to bunt, had seen bat and ball meet, and had seen me
secure the ball on fair ground and put it on to the hitter. He declared
Breckenridge out, and that gave us the game and the championship."
Bailey Weegman lay back and roared. In doing so, he seemed to perceive
Lefty for the first time. As soon as he could get his breath, he said:
"Oh, I say, Locke, let me introduce you. This is Cap'n Wiley, owner
and manager of the Wind Jammers."