THE TEST
Nearly all Fernandon turned out to the game. Many residents of the
town, as well as a large number of the visitors from the North, came in
carriages and automobiles. The covered reserved seats were filled,
and, shielding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, an eager crowd
packed the bleachers. On the sandy grass ground back of third base a
swarm of chattering, grinning colored people sat and sprawled. Holding
themselves proudly aloof from the negroes, a group of lanky, sallow
"poor whites," few of whom could read or write, were displaying their
ignorance by their remarks about the game and the players. The mayor of
the town had consented to act as umpire. At four o'clock he called
"play."
"Now we're off!" sang Cap'n Wiley, waltzing gayly forth to the
coaching position near third. "Here's where we hoist anchor and get
away with a fair wind."
Nuccio, the olive-skinned Italian third baseman, selected his bat and
trotted to the pan, grinning at Locke.
"Oh, you Lefty!" said he. "We gotta your number."
"Put your marlinespike against the pill and crack the coating on it,"
urged Wiley.
George Sommers, catcher for the Grays, adjusted his mask, crouched,
signaled. Locke whipped one over the inside corner, and Nuccio fouled.
"Nicked it!" cried the Marine Marvel. "Now bust it on the figurehead
and make for the first mooring. Show our highly steamed friend Lefty that
he's got to pitch to-day if he don't want the wind taken out of his
sails."
The southpaw tried to lead Nuccio into reaching, but the batter caught
himself in his swing. "Puta the ball over, Left," he pleaded. "Don't
givea me the walk."
The pitcher smiled and handed up a hopper. The batter fouled again,
lifting the ball on to the top of the covered seats.
"I don't think you need worry about walking," said Sommers, returning
after having made a vain start in pursuit of the sphere. "You're in a
hole already."
Nuccio smiled. "Wait," he advised. "I spoil the gooda ones."
Another ball followed, then Lefty warped one across the comer. Nuccio
drove it into right for a pretty single, bringing shouts of approval from
the bench of the Wind Jammers. Wiley addressed Locke.
"Really," he said, "I fear me much that you undervalue the batting
capacity of my players. One and all, individually and collectively,
they are there with the healthy bingle. Please, I beg of you, don't let
them pound you off the slab in the first inning, for that would puncture
a hard-earned reputation and bring tears of regret to my tender eyes.
For fear that you may be careless or disdainful, I warn you that this
next man can't touch anything down around his knees; his arms being
attached to his shoulders at such a dim and distant altitude, he finds it
difficult to reach down so far, even with the longest bat."
Luther Bemis, the player referred to, was the marvelously tall and lanky
center fielder of the Wind Jammers. He had a queer halting walk, like a
person on stilts, and his appearance was so ludicrous that the spectators
tittered and laughed outright. Their amusement did not disturb him, for
he grinned cheerfully as he squared away, waving his long bat.
"Don't you pay no 'tention to the cap 'n, Lefty," he drawled, in a
nasal voice. "I can hit um acrost the knees jest as well as anywhere
else. He's tryin' to fool ye."
"Let's see about that," said Locke, putting one over low and close on
the inside.
Bemis smashed out a hot grounder and went galloping to first with
tremendous, ground-covering strides. For all of his awkward walk and the
fact that he ran like a frightened giraffe, it would have required an
excellent sprinter to beat him from the plate to the initial sack.
Norris, the shortstop, got his hand on the ball and stopped it, but it
twisted out of his fingers. It was an error on a hard chance, for by the
time he secured the sphere there was no prospect of getting either runner.
"Now that's what I call misfortune when regarded from one angle, and
mighty lucky if viewed from another," said Wiley. "Beamy carries a
rabbit's foot; that's why he's second on our batting disorder. He does
things like that when they're least expected the most."
Schaeffer was coaching at first. "Is it Lefty Locke against us
pitching?" he cried. "And such an easiness! Took a lead, efrybody,
and move along when the Irisher hits."
"I hate to do ut," protested Barney O'Reilley, shaking his red head
as he walked into position. "It's a pain it gives me, Lefty, but I have
to earn me salary. No bad feelings, ould man. You understand."
"Just one moment," called Wiley, holding up his hand. "Sympathy
impels me. I have a tender heart. Lefty, I feel that I must warn you
again. This descendant of the Irish nobility can hit anything that
sails over the platter. If it were not a distressing fact that Schepps,
who follows, is even a more royal batter, I would advise you to walk
O'Reilley. As it is, I am in despair."
The crowd was not pleased. It began to beg Locke to fan O'Reilley, and
when the Irishman missed the first shoot the pleadings increased.
"Barney is sympathetic also," cried Cap'n Wiley; "but he'd better
not let his sympathy carry him amain, whatever that is. I shall fine him
if he doesn't hit the ball."
Locke had begun to let himself out in earnest, for the situation was
threatening. It would not be wise needlessly to permit the Wind Jammers
to get the jump. They were a confident, aggressive team, and would fight
to the last gasp to hold an advantage. The southpaw realized that it
would be necessary to do some really high-grade twirling to prevent them
from grabbing that advantage in short order.
Tug Schepps, a tough-looking, hard-faced person, was swinging two bats
and chewing tobacco as he waited to take his turn. He was a product of
the sand lots.
"Land on it, Barney, old top!" urged Tug. "Swat it on der trade-mark
an' clean der sacks. Dis Lefty boy don't seem such a much."
Locke shot over a high one.
"Going up!" whooped O'Reilley, ignoring it.
"Get 'em down below the crow's nest," entreated Wiley. "You're not
pitching to Bemis now."
The southpaw quickly tried a drop across the batter's shoulders, and,
not expecting that the ball had so much on it, Barney let it pass.
He made a mild kick when the mayor-umpire called a strike. "It's
astigmatism ye have, Mr. Mayor," he said politely.
The next one was too close, but O'Reilley fell back and hooked it past
third base. Even though the left fielder had been playing in, Nuccio
might possibly have scored had he not stumbled as he rounded the corner.
Wiley started to grab the fallen runner, but remembered the new rule
just in time, and desisted.
"Put about!" he shouted. "Head back to the last port!"
The Italian scrambled back to the sack, spluttering. He reached it ahead
of the throw from the fielder. Cap'n Wiley pretended to shed tears.
"Is it possible," he muttered, shaking his head, "that this is
the great Lefty Locke? If so, it must be true that his star is on
the decline. Alas and alack, life is filled with such bitter
disappointments."
Whether the regret of Wiley was real or pretended, it was shared by a
large part of the spectators, who were friendly to the local team; for
Locke had become very well liked in Fernandon, both by the citizens of
the place and the Northern visitors.
It must not be imagined that, with the corners crowded and no one down,
Locke was fully at his ease. He had decided to make this game the test of
his ability to "come back," and already it looked as if the first
inning would give him his answer. If he could not successfully hold
in check this heterogeneous collection of bush talent, it was easy to
understand what would happen to him the next time he essayed to twirl
for the Blue Stockings. A sickening sense of foreboding crept over him,
but his lips wore a smile, and he showed no sign of being perturbed.
Schepps was at the plate, having discarded one of the bats he had been
swinging. He grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Always t'ought I could bump
a real league pitcher," he said. "Put one acrost, pal, an' I'll tear
der cover off."
Locke hesitated. He had been using the new delivery he had acquired to
spare his shoulder. In previous games it had proved effective enough to
enable him to continue four or five innings, but now--
Suddenly he whipped the ball to third, sending Nuccio diving headlong
back to the sack. The crafty little Italian had been creeping off, ready
to make a flying dash for the plate. He was safe by a hair.
"Not on your movie film!" cried Cap'n Wiley. "It can't be done!"
Lefty did not hear him. He was gazing past the Marine Marvel at the
face of a man who, taking care to keep himself unobtrusively in the
background, was peering at him over the shoulders of a little group of
spectators--a grinning, mocking derisive face.
It was Weegman. And Weegman knew!