“TAKE HIM OUT!”
Flinging his club toward the bench, Harney jogged lazily down the line,
grinning into the faces of the dissatisfied and sullen Kingsbridgers on
the bleachers. The chortling coacher hailed him hilariously:
“Too bad! Too bad! That pudding is scared stiff. He won’t last an
innin’. Back to the pastures for him.”
The murmurs of the home crowd became louder: “Who ever heard of him,
anyhow?” “He can’t pitch!” “Who picked him up?” “He’s Hen Cope’s find.”
“What’s old Cope know about baseball?” “That dub never saw a real game
before.”
Cope put a hand on Hutchinson’s shoulder. “The boy’ll settle down in a
minute,” he said, trying to speak in a confident and undisturbed way.
“He’s just a bit shaky to start with, but he’ll git into gear soon.”
“He’d better――in a hurry,” retorted the manager in that same dead-level,
colorless voice. “Four straight balls to begin a game is some rotten
pitching.”
“I don’t s’pose he’s uster this sort of a crowd,” admitted Cope
apologetically, coming round and seating himself beside Hutchinson.
“He’s a gentleman, and he’s usually played with――er――well, gentlemanly
comp’ny.”
“He’s out of his element here. This is real baseball, played by
scrappers who are ready to fight every inch of the way. Tell me, Mr.
Cope, where did you discover that worthless piece of excess baggage?”
The elder man’s face became still redder. “Never you mind about that.
I’ve watched his record, and it’s a good one. I didn’t buy no pig in a
poke. Didn’t he stop Fryeburg arter Deever blew up?”
“They’re marks. Deever made monkeys of them until his sore wing pegged
out. Anybody with a straight ball and a little speed could have held
’em.”
“Mebbe so: but, all the same, I know this feller can pitch.”
“If he don’t show some signs of it pretty soon, I’ll bench him and send
Skillings in.”
“Now, you give him a show; you give him a chance. He’ll straighten out,
and show you somethin’. I’m backin’ him, and I want you to listen to
me.”
“I had an idea,” said Hutchinson icily, “that I was engaged to manage
this team.”
“You was, but I’ve got somethin’ to say, and I insist that that boy has
a good, square show.”
“Ball!”
Andy Trollop, following Harney at bat, stood lounging, with the club on
his shoulder, and watched the first wide one pass, laughing as Oulds,
reaching, growled beneath his breath.
“If you try to stop ’em all, Hunchy,” said Andy, with pretended
solicitude, “you’ll strain yourself, and have a doctor’s bill to pay.
Better let ’em go to the net.”
“You go to blazes!” retorted Oulds; which caused Andy to laugh still
more.
Instead of throwing the ball to Locke, the catcher suddenly lined it to
first base, causing Harney to lunge back under Hinkey’s arm to the sack.
Then Oulds removed his mask, and pretended to fuss with the elastic
strap, which gave Stark an opportunity to run up to the pitcher and
softly urge him to go slow and force Trollop to swing.
“He thinks you can’t get ’em over,” whispered the captain, “and mebbe
he won’t strike at the first one or two you put across. Keep it close,
and take a chance. Don’t use a bender till you have to. Now, do steady
down, son.”
Locke’s only reply was a nod. His lips were pressed together, and his
face was gray. He could hear the crowd growling everywhere save in
the section occupied by the laughing, scoffing Bancrofters; try as he
might, he could not deafen his ears to those unpleasant sounds.
“Play ball!” yelled a coacher.
“Play ball, and stop chewin’ the rag,” roared a man from the third-base
bleachers. “I come here to see a game.”
“Don’t look like you’d see much of a one to-day,” said another man.
“I’d like to git my money back now.”
Hinkey tossed the ball to Locke. The youngster was deliberate enough
in his movements, but still, seeking to put a straight one over on the
inside, he compelled the second batter to make a hasty get-away. Oulds
popped up from behind the batsman, ready to throw, but Harney had taken
no chances.
“Don’t have to do it with this duck pitchin’,” laughed the captain of
the Bullies. “He’ll walk us all. It’s a shame.”
Now not a few of the local players were beginning to betray annoyance
and disgust, and the complaints of the home crowd grew louder. Henry
Cope perspired from every pore; but Bob Hutchinson, still with his palm
propping his chin, his cold eyes fixed on Locke, did not stir. The
harassed pitcher walked in a small, complete circle round the slab.
“Say eeny, meeny, miney, mo, Lefty,” advised one of the coachers.
“That’ll sure break the hoodoo.”
“For the love of Mike, do put one over!” entreated a Kingsbridger
piteously――so piteously that a few, who had not permitted their
sufferings wholly to rob them of their sense of humor, laughed.
But Locke actually handed up the seventh straight ball in succession!
This despite the fact that he had never tried harder in all his life to
find the plate.
The clamor swelled; the crowd began to hurl insults at the unfortunate
twirler. The Bancroft players, waiting on the bench to bat, were
choking with laughter. One coacher did monkey-shines, and the other
pretended to weep, boring his knuckles into his eyes and bellowing
lustily.
Oulds held the ball until ordered to throw it, by the umpire. Locke
made a two-handed muff of that easy toss, and the insults came thicker.
Harney, dancing off first, sought to draw a throw, knowing the pitcher
in his present state of mind might put the ball into the bleachers.
Locke did throw to first, but he took so much care that the runner was
lounging on the sack when Hinkey got the sphere.
“You couldn’t throw out a sick cat in four million years, Lefty,”
mocked the coacher.
The local players looked at Captain Stark; Stark looked at Hutchinson
on the bench; Hutchinson did not move a muscle.
“Don’t delay the game,” begged Harney. “Let the lobster pitch, if
you’re going to.”
Skillings, chewing gum, in anticipation of the call every one seemed to
believe must come directly, was keeping his arm limbered by throwing
to Deever, the latter sparing his sore wing by tossing the sphere back
with his left hand.
Locke’s forehead was knotted as he once more toed the slab. This time
he came near getting the ball across, but it missed the corner by an
inch, and the umpire, now back of the pitcher, made a sweeping signal
with his left arm for Trollop to go down.
“Here we go round the mulberry bush,” sang Harney, jogging to second;
but his words were drowned by the catcalls, whoops, and jeers of the
spectators.
“Oh, you left-handed lobster!”
“You’re on the blink!”
“Go die somewhere!”
“You can’t pitch!”
“You never could pitch!”
“Take it away and bury it!”
“Chase yourself, you skate!”
Eight balls without a break had Tom Locke thrown, passing the first two
men to face him. And this was the great southpaw man Kingsbridge had
heard so much about lately, the left-handed wizard who was to make the
hated Bullies bite the dust!
“Take him out!” shrieked a voice above the clamor.
Instantly the crowd took it up on all sides. “Take him out!” they
roared. “Take him out! Take him out!”
Bob Hutchinson lifted his chin from his hand, sat up straight, and
turned to Henry Cope.
“Well?” he said.