HIMSELF AGAIN
Among the spectators, doubtless, the performance of Tom Locke gave
no one keener disappointment and chagrin than that experienced by
Janet Harting. She almost writhed, her fair forehead knotted and her
rosy mouth puckering and pouting. Once she stood up, but the horses,
possibly getting a glimpse of her parasol, started, and young King,
quieting them, suggested that it would be best for her to remain on the
seat.
“Oh, isn’t it just mean!” the girl cried, as Locke continued to search
in vain for the pan. “Everybody expected him to do so much. Mr. Cope
was so sure about him, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bent. “For the last few days the whole town has
been talking about the wonderful new pitcher and what he would do.”
“It’s a shame! Why, he can’t pitch at all!”
“It doesn’t seem so, but perhaps he may steady down. I once saw a
pitcher pass three men straight, and then strike out the next three
without a break.”
“Oh, but this one never could do a thing like that. He can’t put even a
straight one over; he hasn’t a bit of control.”
“You talk like a fan, Janet. Your father is such a crank――er, excuse
me!――that he wouldn’t let you see the games last year. Where did you
pick up your knowledge?”
“Boarding school. Some of us girls used to get to the college games on
Saturday. I declare, I do believe he’s going to walk this batter, too!
Why don’t they take him out and let some one pitch who knows how?”
“There’s Cope talking to the manager on the bench. The old man is
stubborn, and I presume he’s set on giving the great pitcher he signed
all the show possible. It hurts his pride to see the fellow fizzle this
way.”
Janet’s blue eyes flashed. “It’s simply dreadful!” she panted. “Every
day last year I got the score of the games, and it made me ill when our
team went to pieces at last, the way it did. And everybody has been
saying we’d surely beat Bancroft this year. Hear them mocking us over
there! Oh, I’m sorry I came to-day!”
“Cheer up; the game isn’t lost just because a false alarm is unmasking
himself in the first inning. The home crowd is getting hot now, and
they’ll demand that the fellow be benched directly. We’ve got other
pitchers, you know.”
“Other pitchers! Don’t call this one a pitcher! He’s a――a――”
“A flash in the pan,” laughed King. “It’s a good thing he has betrayed
himself right off the reel, for that will give us all the more time to
recover from the shock. There, there goes the second batter to first.
Now hear the crowd rub it into the poor dub. Oh, say! they’re soaking
him. There’ll be a riot if he isn’t sent to the stable pretty quick.
Listen to that! I knew it!”
The exasperated Kingsbridgers were howling for the removal of Locke,
the cry to take him out immediately swelling into a roar from all sides
of the field. Forgetting the cautioning words of her companion, Miss
Harting again sprang to her feet.
“Take him out!” she cried; but her voice was drowned in the mighty
volume of sound.
“Steady, Janet,” said Bent, taking hold of her arm with one hand and
gently drawing her back to the seat. “This racket is making the nags
nervous, and I’d hate to spill you out, after promising your grudging
father to look after you and see that nothing happened. They’ll have
to put the blanket on Lefty now. The crowd won’t stand for any more of
him.”
On the Kingsbridge bench Henry Cope and Manager Hutchinson were
arguing over it, the former hot and insistent, the latter cold and
unemotionally scornful.
“One chance more――give him another show,” demanded Cope. “I tell ye I
_know_ he can pitch.”
“Perhaps he can pitch hay,” returned Hutchinson; “but not baseball.
Listen to that howling mob. They’ll murder him pretty quick. I don’t
want the responsibility on my shoulders.”
“I’ll take all the responsibility; he’s my man, and I’ll shoulder it.
Let him try the next feller.”
“When the whole town gets to kicking at me, will you stand up and say
you insisted on it against my wishes?”
“Didn’t I jest say I’d shoulder it! Nobody shan’t put the blame on you.”
“Oh, all right. They’ll mob him on the diamond if he hands out another
pass, and that’s just what he’ll do. He’s white as a ghost with fear.
He couldn’t get the ball over now if his life depended on it.”
Indeed, the wretched pitcher was ghastly white, the pallor of his face
making his dark-brown eyes seem almost black; and into the depths of
those eyes had come a light like a dull-red flame, flaring up swiftly.
A few moments before he had felt his own nerves unsteady, and fought
in vain for control of them; now, with the howling demand for his
removal hammering into his ears, he suddenly found himself steady as a
foundation rock. His resentment and anger was of the white-hot variety
that transmutes. A man serene and calm it might unnerve; one doubtful
and wavering it might turn to iron.
Slowly he turned until he had faced every side of the field, and all
that mass of snarling humanity, yelling at him, jeering, insulting,
shaking their fists, their faces red and wroth, their eyes full of
contempt, their lips hurling forth threats of bodily violence――and he
smiled at them.
“Howl away,” he said, but no one save himself heard the words. “I’ll
show you some pitching yet.”
Never before had he pitched in the presence of a crowd of such crude,
seemingly ferocious, human beings; but many a time, as he well knew,
he had faced batters as skillful and dangerous as these raw, would-be
professionals and broken-down cast-offs from minor leagues.
At no time had he feared the hitting ability of his opponents, but, as
sometimes happens to the headiest and most seasoned veteran, the moment
he toed the slab some incomprehensible thing had taken possession of
him, and made him a mockery for the crowd and a sickening shame to
himself.
Now, however, he knew the unmanning spirit had been exorcised; he was
himself again, clean and fit.