TORTURING DOUBT
To a degree, Locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of
his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his
efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of
pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been
a sheer waste of time. Working against batters who were dangerous, his
artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would
hold them in check. He had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted
to his natural form.
But what would that do to his shoulder? Could he pitch like that and go
the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? Should he attempt
it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his
salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last
heart-breaking game in the Big League.
Involuntarily, as he left the mound, he looked around for Weegman, who
had disappeared. It gave Lefty some satisfaction to feel that, for the
time being, at least, he had wiped the mocking grin from the schemer's
face.
Cap'n Wiley jogged down from third, an expression of injured reproof
puckering his countenance. "I am pained to the apple core," he said.
"My simple, trusting nature has received a severe shock. Just when I
thought we had you meandering away from here, Lefty, you turned right
round and came back. If you handed us that one lone tally to chirk us
along, let me reassure you that you made the mistake of your young life;
I am going to ascend the hillock and do some volleying, which makes it
extensively probable that the run we have garnered will be sufficient
to settle the game."
"Don't be so unfeeling!" responded Locke. "Give us Mysterious Jones."
"Oh, perchance you may be able to get on the sacks with me pushing 'em
over; but if Jones unlimbered his artillery on you, he'd mow you down
as fast as you toddled up to the pentagon. You see, I wish the assemblage
to witness some slight semblance of a game."
In action upon the slab, Wiley aroused still further merriment. His
wind-up before delivering the ball was most bewildering. His writhing,
squirming twists would have made a circus contortionist gasp. First
he seemed to tie himself into knots, pressing the ball into the pit of
his stomach like a person in excruciating anguish. On the swing back, he
turned completely away from the batter, facing second base for a moment,
at the same time poising himself on his right foot and pointing his
left foot toward the zenith. Then he came forward and around, as if he
would put the sphere over with the speed of a cannon ball--and handed
up a little, slow bender.
But he need not have troubled himself to put a curve on that first one,
for Fred Hallett, leading off for the Grays, stood quite still and stared
like a person hypnotized. The ball floated over, and the umpire called a
strike, which led Hallett to shake himself and join in the laughter of
the crowd.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" spluttered Wiley. "Was my
speed too much for you? Couldn't you see it when it came across? Shall I
pitch you a slow one?"
Hallett shook his head, unable to reply.
"Oh, vurry, vurry well," said the Marine Marvel. "As you choose. I
don't want to be too hard on you." Then, after going through with a
startling variation of the former convulsions, he did pitch a ball that
was so speedy that the batsman swung too slowly. And, a few minutes
later, completing the performance to his own satisfaction, he struck
Hallett out with a neat little drop. "I preen myself," said he, "that
I'm still there with the huckleberries. As a pitcher of class, I've
got Matty and a few others backed up against the ropes. Bring on your
next victim."
Charlie Watson found the burlesque so amusing that he laughed all the
way from the bench to the plate. The eccentric pitcher looked at him
sympathetically.
"When you get through shedding tears," he said, "I'll pitch to you.
I hate to see a strong man weep."
Then, without the slightest warning, using no wind-up whatever, he
snapped one straight over, catching Watson unprepared. That sobered
Watson down considerably.
"I'm glad to see you feeling better," declared the manager of the Wind
Jammers. "Now that you're quite prepared, I'll give you something
easy."
The slow one that he tossed up seemed to hang in the air with the
stitches showing. Watson hit it and popped a little fly into Wiley's
hands, the latter not being compelled to move out of his tracks. He
removed his cap and bowed his thanks.
Doc Tremain walked out seriously enough, apparently not at all amused
by the horseplay that was taking place. With his hands on his hips, Wiley
stared hard at Tremain.
"Here's a jolly soul!" cried the pitcher. "He's simply laughing
himself sick. I love to see a man enjoy himself so diabolically."
"Oh, play ball!" the doctor retorted tartly. "This crowd isn't here
to see monkeyshines."
"Then they won't look at you, my happy friend. And that's a dart of
subtle repartee."
Wiley's remarkable wind-up and delivery did not seem to bother Tremain,
who viciously smashed the first ball pitched to him. It was a savage line
drive slightly to the left of the slabman, but the latter shot out his
gloved hand with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed
the whistling sphere. Having made the catch, the Marine Marvel tossed
the ball carelessly to the ground and sauntered toward the bench with
an air of bored lassitude. There was a ripple of applause.
"You got off easy that time, cap'n," said Locke, coming out. "When
are you going to let us have a crack at Jones?"
"A crack at him!" retorted Wiley. "Don't make me titter, Lefty! Your
assemblage of would-bes never could get anything remotely related to a
crack off Jones. However, when ongwee begins to creep over me I'll let
him go in and polish you off."
"Colonel" Rickey, leading off for the Wind Jammers in the second,
hoisted an infield fly, and expressed his annoyance in a choice Southern
drawl as he went back to the bench.
Peter Plum, the fat right fielder, followed, poling out an infield drive
which, to the amazement of the crowd, he nearly turned into a safety
by the most surprising dash to first. Impossible though it seemed, the
chunky, short-legged fellow could run like a deer, and when he was cut
down by little more than a yard at the hassock he vehemently protested
that it was robbery.
Locke was taking it easy now; he almost seemed to invite a situation
that would again put his arm to the test. There was a queer feeling in
his shoulder, a feeling he did not like, and he wondered if he could
"tighten" in repeated pinches, as he had so frequently done when
facing the best batters in the business. But, though he grooved one to
Schaeffer, the catcher boosted an easy fly to Watson in left field.
Wiley went through the second inning unharmed, although, with two down,
Colby landed on the horsehide for two sacks. Coming next, Gates bit at a
slow one and lifted a foul to the third baseman.
"Now give me my faithful bludgeon," cried the Marine Marvel, making for
the bats. "Watch me start something! I'm going to lacerate the feelings
of this man Lefty. I hate to do it, but I hear the clarion call of duty."
Locke decided to strike Wiley out. Wiley picked out a smoking shoot, and
banged it on a line for one sack.
"Nice tidy little bingle, wasn't it, mate?" he cried. "I fancied
mayhap Dame Rumor had slandered you, but alas! I fear me you are easy
for a real batter with an eye."
Nuccio was up again, and he also hit safely, Wiley going to third on
the drive. Locke's teeth clicked together. Was it possible that real
batters could find him with such ease? If so, the Big League would see
him no more; he would not return to it. If so, his days as a pitcher
were surely ended. For a moment Bailey Weegman's grinning face again
rose vaguely before him.
"I must know!" he muttered. "I must settle these infernal doubts that
are torturing me."