BANCROFT COMES TO CONQUER
Never before, even though it was the middle of the week, had such a
crowd of Bancroft fans accompanied the team to a neighboring town. When
the train stopped they began hopping off the cars, like fleas from the
back of a cat to which insect powder has been applied, and in a few
moments the station platform was packed with them, laughing, joking,
confident of what the afternoon held in store.
In short order they swarmed into every restaurant in town. Having
satisfied their hunger, they went forth into the streets of Kingsbridge
to wait for the hour of the game, some of them to seek citizens who
were willing to back the local team with real money.
But Fancy Dyke and two associates, provided with rolls of the “long
green,” had struck Kingsbridge by an earlier train and raked the place
for bets with a fine-tooth comb. Kingsbridgers who had money they were
willing to risk sought the assurance of Henry Cope that Tom Locke
would pitch; and, with this guarantee, they proceeded to “take a
chance.”
Before the gates opened that afternoon, more money had been posted
than ever before on a single game in the Northern League. For, while
the milltown people had heard that the Bullies would present a new
left-handed slabman, the promise that Locke would do the tossing for
the Kinks left them still with a feeling of assurance undisturbed by
the least uncertainty.
Not that they believed there was no chance of losing, but their faith
in Lefty was so great that it seemed at least a five-to-one shot in
Kingsbridge’s favor; and a man who would “squeeze his roll” with such
an opportunity staring him in the face certainly lacked sporting blood.
That afternoon, as the hour of the game drew on, only the unyielding
strictness of foremen and bosses kept the mills running, the workmen
almost threatening to desert in a body. Some of them slipped away, even
though they knew they were inviting discharge by doing so.
Naturally, the curiosity to see Bancroft’s new pitcher was very great,
and there was a mighty craning of necks on the bleachers and in the
stand when the visitors appeared for practice.
The man whose name had been given as Craddock was easily seen, being
over six feet in height, and having amazingly long arms and legs; in
fact, he seemed to be nearly all arms and legs. He was not a handsome
person, with a hatchet face and a huge beak of a nose, while his ears
stood out like fans on either side of his long, narrow head. He carried
his shoulders hunched forward, and walked with a queer bobbing movement
of the knees, a sort of buckling with each step. In more ways than one
his appearance was suggestive of a crane.
Craddock warmed up without letting himself loose at all, giving the
eager watchers no chance to get an idea of his capability by anything
in that preliminary performance.
With the appearance of the home team, Hutchinson sprang a surprise. A
new man came on the field with them, a bronzed, husky, rawboned man,
who quickly set the crowd to speculating as to his identity. When the
local pitchers began limbering their wings, one question was quickly
answered; for when the stranger commenced to warm up, also, it was seen
that he was a pitcher; and many a Kingsbridger hoped he would prove to
be better than either Deever or Skillings.
Mike Riley, smoking industriously, stood around with his hands in his
pockets, watching his players in a self-satisfied manner. His bearing
was more than encouraging for those who had journeyed thirty miles
to see the Bullies win. After a time, he walked over and spoke to
Hutchinson. They talked earnestly for several minutes, Riley making
gestures with his clenched fist and nodding his head savagely, while
Hutch shrugged his shoulders repeatedly.
When the Kingsbridge manager turned toward the local bench, he found
Henry Cope standing near it.
“Well,” said the grocer, “what did old Riley have t’ say? Tried ter
browbeat ye, didn’t he?”
“Oh,” said Hutchinson, “he reasserted his claim to Hazelton, and said
we’d surely lose this game out of the count if we persisted in pitching
the man. You can see, Cope, that it’s no bluff; the meeting is called
for to-morrow night. I’ve got Ringling, a new pitcher, here, and he’s
clever. Don’t you think we’d better use him?”
“I notified you,” said the grocer irritably, “that Locke would pitch
this game, and he’ll pitch it. Put him in.”
“All right,” growled Hutchinson, in exasperation, “have your own way.”
As he sat down on the bench, he added to himself: “You pig-headed old
fool!”
So it was Locke who went on the slab when the umpire called “play,”
and Bancroft promptly sent Harney jogging forth to the pan with his pet
bat on his shoulder. Tom was given a rousing cheer by his admirers.
“You know what to do to ’em, Lefty,” yelled a man on the bleachers.
“You’re the boy fer us. We’re backin’ you.”
Harney drove his spikes into the dry ground and squared himself, his
bat held high and ready. His posture was that of a man who welcomed
speed, and rather preferred that the ball should be up around his
shoulders; therefore, Locke opened with one across his knees on the
inside corner. True, Harney hit it promptly, but he only batted a weak
grounder into the diamond, and Labelle, grabbing it quickly, whipped
him out at first by a wide margin.
“Just as easy as ever!” whooped a delighted Kingsbridger. “Pick off the
next one, Tommy, old top.”
Trollop held his bat low, so Locke kept the ball high and close,
causing it to jump, and the Bancroft center fielder slashed at three
without making even a foul.
“Some pitchin’, Lefty, some pitchin’!” was the cry.
Wop Grady, his face knotted and puckered, as usual, slammed at the
first one handed him, and hoisted a high foul, which Oulds smothered
close to the wire netting that protected the people in the stand; and
Kingsbridge gave Locke a cheer that resembled a cowboy yell more than
anything else.
Every eye seemed to be turned on Bancroft’s new pitcher as he teetered
awkwardly out upon the diamond. The ball was thrown to him, and he
whipped three or four scorchers to Harney, at first, before Labelle was
ready to bat; but not until he toed the slab to pitch to the batter did
he put his remarkable delivery on exhibition.
Suddenly he swung far backward, pivoting on his left foot and shooting
his right arm and right leg into the air, while his left hand carried
the ball far, far over until it seemed that he was trying to touch
the ground with it. Up he came and forward on to his right foot, his
pitching hand sweeping through the air to send the ball burning across
a corner of the pan.
“_Nom de tonnerre!_” gasped Labelle, his eyes bulging, his bat hanging
poised.
“Strike!” cried the umpire.