AT NECESSITY'S DEMAND
Even after the ball was thrown back from third, and Lefty had turned
away, that grinning, mocking face continued to leer at him. Wherever he
looked it hovered before his mental vision like a taunting omen of
disaster. He was "all in," and Weegman knew it. The man had told
him, with sneering bluntness, that his "old soup bone was on the
blink." Yet, entertaining this settled conviction regarding Locke's
worthlessness as a pitcher, Weegman had made a long and wearisome
journey in order that he might be absolutely sure, by putting the deal
through in person, of signing the southpaw for the Blue Stockings at
an increased salary. The very fact that he had been offered the position
of manager, under conditions that would make him a mere puppet without
any real managerial authority, gave the proposition a blacker and more
sinister look.
Sommers was signaling. Lefty shook his head to rid himself of that
hateful chimera. Misunderstanding, the catcher quickly changed the
sign. The pitcher delivered the ball called for first, and it went
through Sommers like a fine shot through an open sieve.
Nuccio scored from third with ease, Bemis and O'Reilley advancing at
the same time. The Wind Jammers roared from the bench. Cap'n Wiley threw
up his hands.
"Furl every stitch!" cried the manager of the visitors. "Batten the
hatches! The storm is upon us! It's going to be a rip-sizzler. I'm
afraid the wreck will be a total loss."
Covering the plate, Lefty took the ball from Sommers.
"How did you happen to cross me?" asked the catcher.
"It was my fault," was the prompt acknowledgment; "but it won't
happen again."
"I hope not," said Sommers. He wanted to suggest that Locke should
retire at once and let Matthews take up the pitching, but he refrained.
The southpaw was doing some serious thinking as he walked back to the
mound. However well his newly acquired delivery had seemed to serve
him on other occasions, he was convinced that it would not do now; either
he must pitch in his own natural way and do his best, or he must retire
and let Dade Matthews try to check the overconfident aggressors. If
he retired, he would prolong the uncertainty in his own mind; he would
leave himself in doubt as to whether or not there was any prospect of
his return to the Big League as a twirler worthy of his hire. More than
doubt, he realized, he would be crushed by a conviction that he was
really down and out.
"I've pampered my arm long enough," he decided. "I'm going to find
out if there's anything left in it."
Perhaps the decision was unwise. The result of the game with the Wind
Jammers was of no importance, but Locke felt that, for his own peace
of mind, he must know what stuff was left in him. And there was no one
present with authority, no coach, no counselor, to restrain him. There
was a strange, new gleam in his eyes when he once more toed the slab.
His faint smile had not vanished, but it had taken lines of grimness.
Schepps tapped the plate with his bat. "Come on, pal," he begged;
"don't blow up. Gimme one of der real kind, an' lemme have a swat at
it."
The crowd was silent; even the chattering darkies had ceased their noise.
Only the Wind Jammers jubilated on the bench and the coaching lines.
Poising himself, Locke caught Sommer's signal, and nodded. Then he swung
his arm with the old free, supple, whiplash motion, and the ball that
left his fingers cut the air like a streak of white, taking a really
remarkable hop. Schepps' "swat" was wasted.
"Now, dat's like it!" cried the sandlotter. "Where've you been
keepin' dat kind, old boy? Gimme a duplicate."
Lefty watched Bemis, the long-legged ground coverer, working away
toward the plate, and drove him back. But he seemed to have forgotten
O'Reilley, and the Irishman was taking a lead on which he should have
little trouble in scoring if Schepps drove out a safety. Farther and
farther he crept up toward third.
Sommers tugged at his mask with an odd little motion. Like a flash the
southpaw whirled about and shot the ball to second, knowing some one
would be there to take the throw. Mel Gates was the man who covered the
bag, and O'Reilley found himself caught between second and third. Gates
went after him, and the Irishman ran toward third. But Locke had cut
in on the line, and he took a throw from Gates that caused O'Reilley
to turn back abruptly. Behind Gates, Norris was covering the cushion.
Tremain came down a little from third to back Lefty up.
Colby had raced from first base to the plate in order to support Sommers,
for Bemis was swiftly creeping down to make a dash. On the coaching
line, Cap'n Wiley did a wild dance. The spectators were thrilled by
the sudden excitement of the moment.
Lefty ran O'Reilley back toward second, and he knew Bemis was letting
himself out in an attempt to score. Swinging instantly, Locke made a
rifle-accurate throw to Sommers, who jammed the ball on to the
long-geared runner as he was sliding for the plate. The affair had
been so skillfully managed that not only was O'Reilley prevented from
advancing, but also the attempt to sneak a tally while the Irishman
was being run down had resulted disastrously for the Wind Jammers.
"Dat's der only way dey can get us out," said Schepps. "Dis Lefty
person looks to me like a lemon!"
Cap'n Wiley was philosophically cheerful. "Just a little lull in the
tornado," he said. "It's due to strike again in a minute."
Lefty looked the confident Schepps over, and then he gave him a queer
drop that deceived him even worse than the swift hopper. The spectators,
who had been worried a short time before, now expressed their approval;
and when, a minute later, the southpaw whiffed the sandlotter, there was
a sudden burst of handclapping and explosions of boisterous laughter
from the delighted darkies.
"Wh-who's dat man said lemon?" cried one. "Dat Lefty pusson sho'
handed him one dat time!"
"Is it possible," said Cap'n Wiley, "that I'm going to be compelled
to revise my dates regarding that wreck?" Then he roared at the Swede:
"Get into the game, Oleson! It's your watch on deck, and you want to
come alive. The wrong ship's being scuttled."
"Aye, aye, captain!" responded Oleson. "Mebbe Ay do somethin' when
Ay get on the yob. Yust keep your eye on me." Believing himself a hitter
superior to the men who had touched Locke up so successfully at the
beginning of the game, he strode confidently forth, for all of the
failure of Schepps.
Sizing up the Swede, Lefty tested him with a curve, but Oleson betrayed
no disposition to reach. A drop followed, and the batter fouled it. His
style of swinging led the southpaw to fancy that he had a preference
for drops, and therefore Locke wound the next one round his neck,
puncturing his weakness. Not only did Oleson miss, but he swung in a
manner that made it doubtful if he would drive the ball out of the
infield if he happened to hit one of that kind.
"Hit it where you missed it!" implored Wiley. "Don't let him
bamboozle you with the chin wipers." Then he turned on O'Reilley.
"Cast off that mooring! Break your anchor loose and get under way!
Man the halyards and crack on every stitch! You've got to make port
when Ole stings the horsehide."
In spite of himself, Lefty was compelled to laugh outright at the Marine
Marvel's coaching contortions. "Calm yourself, cap'n," he advised.
"The hurricane is over."
"How can I calm myself when calamity threatens?" was the wild retort.
"You are a base deceiver, Lefty. Such chicanery is shameful! I don't
know what chicanery means, but it seems to fit the offense."
And now the spectators fell to laughing at the swarthy little man, who
did not seem to be so very offensive, after all, and who was injecting
more than a touch of vaudeville comedy into the game.
Oleson waited patiently, still determined to hit, although somewhat
dismayed by his two failures to gauge the left-hander's slants. But
when Lefty suddenly gave him another exactly like the last, he slashed
at it awkwardly and fruitlessly. The crowd broke into a cheer, and the
Swede turned dazedly from the plate, wiping beads of perspiration from
his brow.
"That Lefty he bane some pitcher," admitted Oleson. "He got a good
yump ball."