WAS IT A BLUFF?
Kingsbridge was to play at home that day, with Lakeport. It being the
middle of the week, the crowd on hand at the hour for the game to begin
was not more than one-third as large as the average Saturday attendance.
The enthusiasm aroused by the two clean victories over Bancroft,
however, was sufficient to bring out nearly every interested
Kingsbridger who could come; and many who knew they should not do
so came, temporarily neglecting their business. Soothing a troubled
conscience is often the task of the howling fan on the bleachers, and
if games were never attended save by those who feel that they have a
perfect right to attend, the gate receipts would dwindle frightfully.
Henry Cope arrived as the locals were getting in the last round of
practice before the contest started. Hutchinson had his eye out for the
storekeeper, to whom he beckoned at once, rising from the bench.
“Well,” said Cope, as he came up, flushed, “how’s things lookin’
to-day?”
“All right, as far as this game is concerned,” replied the manager, in
his unenthusiastic way; “but I have something in my pocket that’s got
me guessing.”
“Hey? What is it?”
“A letter from Mike Riley, received to-day noon.”
“Oh, is that so?” snapped Cope, instantly deciding that he knew
something as to the tenor of that letter. “Well, what’s that
bullyraggin’ bluffer got to say? Lemme see it.”
“I’ll show it to you later, when we’re not quite so conspicuous. I
can state the gist of its contents accurately, for I’ve read it over
several times. Riley asserts that, according to Rule Fourteen of the
by-laws of the Northern League, he holds first and undisputable claim
to the pitcher who has been working for us under the name of Tom Locke.”
“The dratted snake!” rasped the storekeeper. “He can’t gull me! There
ain’t nothin’ to it, Hutchinson, so don’t you let him git ye on a
string.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing to it? He demands that we surrender the
man to Bancroft at once, and says he has already notified you of his
claim.”
“Oh, yes, he’s notified me, in a way; and I practically told him where
he could go. It’s a put-up job to gouge us out of a pitcher that’s
got the whole o’ Bancroft scared pea green. We’ve got ’em goin’, and
they’re afraid they can’t beat us on the level, so, arter their usual
style, they put up a job to weaken us by stealin’ our pitcher. That’s
Bancroft out an’ out, and Mike Riley’s a good tool to work the trick
for them; but he can’t work it――he can’t, I tell ye!”
“Doubtless you know more about the merits of the case than I do,”
said Hutchinson calmly; “for you signed this man who calls himself
Locke. Riley says Locke is a Princeton College pitcher by the name of
Hazelton. How about that?”
“Riley thinks he’s wise,” returned Cope evasively, “but mebbe he don’t
know as much as he’s got a notion he does. Anyhow, whether Locke is
Hazelton or not, I’m dead sure Bancroft ain’t got no legal claim to
him.”
“I hope you’re right, of course, for Locke seems to be a fairly good
pitcher.”
“Fairly good――_fairly_! Why, he’s a ripper, a bird, a wonder! His match
ain’t never pitched the horsehide in these parts.”
“Perhaps not; we won’t argue about that. From his letter, I should
judge that Riley really means to put up a fight for Locke, or Hazelton,
whichever you choose to call him. He states that, unless the man is
immediately released to him, he will make a formal protest to Anson
Graham, president of the league, and he has requested me to call the
attention of the directors of our local association to the matter.”
“Nothin’ but wind. He won’t push it, for he ain’t got a leg to stand
on.”
“He likewise states that, in case we use Lefty again, the protest will
contain a request that all games in which Locke plays on any Northern
League team except Bancroft shall not be reckoned in the percentage
record of such a team. Now, Mr. Cope, if he does push this thing, and
the decision should go against us, it would knock the stuffing out of
our standing in the league. We are also warned not to use Locke again
until the question is settled. Unless you know beyond the shadow of
uncertainty that Bancroft can’t establish her claim, we’d better hurry
the matter to a settlement, or keep Locke on the bench.”
Henry Cope was greatly wrought up.
“Keep him on the bench! That’s just what Riley’d like to frighten us
inter doin’. If he could only scare us so we wouldn’t dast use Locke
for a while he’d have the laugh on us, whether he proved his case or
not. He’s full o’ tricks as an egg’s full o’ meat.”
“Well, until the matter is settled, I think we’d better use Locke as
little as possible. I don’t believe it would be advisable, under any
circumstances, to run him into this game to-day.”
“This game! I should say not! We’ve got other pitchers for games like
this. We’ll keep Locke special to down Bancroft. If we can’t hold our
own with the rest of the teams with the pitchers we’ve got, we’ll git
more pitchers.”
The umpire was ready, and the game was on the verge of starting, so
Hutchinson returned to the bench.
Despite his outward boldness, Henry Cope was troubled, for it began to
seem that Riley really meant to press his claim, an action that would
be foolish unless he could back it up with proof. The grocer sought Tom
Locke, and drew him away from the bench.
The young man listened to Cope’s words, frowning a little, the blood
slowly mounting into his cheeks.
“They seem determined to make as much trouble for me as possible,” he
said. “I have a feeling that Hutchinson doesn’t like me too much, and
there is another individual in town who is doing his prettiest to stir
things up. Benton King is the chap I mean. He has sent for a photograph
of Paul Hazelton.”
“Has he? Well, what d’ye think o’ that? See here, Bent’s ruther smashed
on the parson’s daughter. You ain’t been cuttin’ in on his preserves,
have ye?”
“I scarcely know the girl,” answered Locke; but the flush in his cheeks
deepened. “Mr. Cope, consider that I’ve been in this town only a few
days.”
“I know that, but some o’ you baseball fellers are pretty swift with
the gals. They generally git their pick in towns like this, for the
gals go smashed on ’em right off. Still, Janet Harting ain’t just
that kind; she’s a fine little lady, and she wouldn’t pick up with no
stranger in a hurry, whether he played baseball or not.”
“I’d scarcely fancy her foolish or forward. She appears to be a very
nice girl, indeed.”
“They don’t grow none better, boy. She’s all right, though her father’d
put an everlastin’ end to baseball, if he could have his way. You’re
dead sure this man Riley ain’t got nothin’ on ye?”
“I’m practically sure of it. He’s bluffing, Mr. Cope, and he’ll lay
down when he finds he can’t drive you.”
There was something in the way this was said, however, that left a
vague uneasiness in the grocer’s mind. “Practically sure,” he muttered,
as he sat on the bleachers, scarcely paying any attention to the run of
the game. “Why ain’t he dead sure? It’s mighty odd that he should be at
all onsartin on that p’int.”