A PITCHERS’ BATTLE
As Locke walked calmly toward the bench he found Captain Stark at his
side, laughing. “You pulled outer that hole in great shape, old man,”
said Larry; “but you sure had us all leery to start with. I reckoned
you was plumb up in the air.”
“I was,” admitted the pitcher unhesitatingly; “but I managed to get my
feet under me after a while.”
His face was no longer pale; the color had returned to his cheeks, and
a flickering smile played at the corners of his fine mouth.
Henry Cope, beaming, made room for the players on the bench. “I knowed
it,” he said. “I tole ’em so.”
Having unemotionally watched the new pitcher approach, Manager
Hutchinson spoke to Stark. “See if you can’t start something right
away,” he directed. “Mebbe we’ll get ’em going if we score the first
time up.”
Larry nodded, and whispered hastily to the leading batter, Labelle, a
slim, shifty French Canadian, a heady single hitter, and an unusually
fast man on the sacks. Labelle grinned, and found his bat.
Possibly the Bancroft manager was more disgusted than disappointed,
as the sarcastic comments which he flung at his offending players
seemed to indicate; but as yet he had not been aroused to apprehension
concerning the ultimate outcome of the game, and he felt that, were the
Kinks’ left-hander really formidable, it had well happened that his men
had been forwarned thus early in the contest.
Having relieved his feelings by a flaying fling at Mace, as the final
victim of Locke’s skill secured his fielding mitt from the bench,
Riley cast aside the remnants of his cigar, lighted a fresh weed, and
prepared to watch Jock Hoover make monkeys of the locals.
Janet Harting was overjoyed. “Oh, wasn’t that splendid!” she cried,
impulsively squeezing her companion’s arm with one gloved hand. “It was
_such_ a surprise! I never expected it.”
“No more did any one, I fancy,” said King, laughing. “It’s the
unexpected that so frequently happens which makes baseball the
fascinating game it is. Apparently that fellow can pitch some, after
all. I wonder where he came from.”
“Mr. Cope won’t tell, and nobody around here seems to know.”
“Somehow I have a feeling that I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place
him.”
“Perhaps he’s some great college pitcher,” said the girl.
“I don’t know about that, but if he is I reckon he’s here under a fake
name; for you know it makes college twirlers professionals to play for
money. A man is barred if he’s ever caught at it. Just the same, some
of them, needing the dough, take the risk. Up here in this league a man
would stand a fair chance of getting by without being exposed.”
“It’s――it’s supposed to be dishonest, isn’t it?”
“Yes; but necessity has driven more than one good man to shut his
eyes to that phase of the matter. If this Locke was known at all as a
professional, some of the players of this league should recognize him.”
“I don’t like to think that he’s a college man who would do such a
thing,” said Janet earnestly.
“Oh-ho!” cried Bent. “So you’re taking considerable interest in the
chap you thought couldn’t pitch at all.”
“Well,” she faltered, “he――he looks clean and honest. One can see he
isn’t like the others――the most of them, anyway. Kingsbridge is going
to bat now. I hope they can do something.”
Hoover had shaken the kinks out of his arm by two or three throws to
first, and, glancing round to make sure his backers were in position
and ready, he stepped on to the slab and glowered at Labelle. Squatting,
Bangs signaled, and the fire-eating twirler swung into his first
delivery.
Although a “waiter,” with an excellent eye, Labelle seldom permitted
himself to pass up the first one if it came over the rubber, and he
sought to land on Hoover’s corner-cutting slant. The resulting foul
counted against the batter as a strike.
“That’s a nibble; take a bite,” shouted a coacher.
Labelle stamped his spikes into the ground, and squared himself again,
unruffled. Hoover leered at him vindictively. The crowd rooted.