PINWHEEL MURTEL
The great Bancroft crowd laughed. They had come to Kingsbridge to
see their new southpaw show the Kinks something about pitching.
Incidentally they had made arrangements to take home with them various
sums of money which the foolish Kingsbridgers had wagered on their team.
Bangs whipped the ball back, and Craddock again went through with that
remarkable delivery, looking, as one man expressed it, “as though he
was all arms ’n’ legs.” Again the ball bit a corner off the plate, and
Labelle, fascinated by the pitcher’s gyrations, swung too late.
The only delay was that caused by the movements of Craddock preliminary
to pitching, and he did not waste a single “teaser” on the Kinks’ first
hitter. The third one was high, with a sharp slant on it, and the
little Canadian whiffed out.
“There’s pitchin’ fur ye!” yelled a Bancrofter. “What d’ye think o’
_that_?”
“_Nom de tonnerre!_” said Labelle again, as he retired to the bench.
“Where he come from, de circus?”
Stark, following, fouled three times, but eventually the Bancrofter
twirler outguessed him, and sent him, fanned, to take his place beside
Labelle.
“Whut’s he got?” asked Reddy Crandall, pawing among the bats.
“Curves and speed,” answered Larry, in a low tone. “Don’t get to
watching his delivery and forget to watch the ball. Go to him! He can
be hit.”
But Reddy could not hit him that time, and the Bancroft crowd howled
as their new projector fanned the third man in succession. There were
some who began to prophesy that the Kinks would be shut out without a
hit on their own field. There are always wise heads who make foolish
prophecies early in every game.
The second inning opened with Bancroft’s left-handed hitters coming
up, and Locke, knowing they had been practicing against a left-handed
pitcher, worked with the utmost care and judgment, his change of speed
being most effective, as it caused two of the four men who faced him to
bump weak grounders into the diamond, to their complete undoing.
With two down, Bernsteine, standing well back from the plate, with a
long bat grasped near the end, stepped into a “roundhouse,” and lined
out a pretty single. It did no good, however, for Lisotte banged a
grasser into the clinging paws of Labelle, and Bernsteine was out at
second on a force.
“You all hit him, boys,” cried a Bancroft man. “You’ll straighten ’em
out by and by, and lose the balls over in the slashings at the foot of
Bald Mountain. He’s due to get his bumps.”
Craddock continued his remarkable work, and, one after the other,
Anastace, Hinkey, and Lace were mowed down, even as their comrades had
fallen in the first round.
The Bullies were urged to fall on Locke, and Bangs led off with a long
drive to center, which Sockamore retrieved on the fly. Craddock did not
seem to be strong with the club, and he made a laughable exhibition by
seeking to hit the low ones on the inside corner, where Locke kept the
ball for a strike-out. Harney got one to his fancy, through a momentary
lapse on the part of Locke, but, by tall hustling out in the left
garden, Reddy Crandall picked the globule out of the air.
“You’re hittin’ him now,” declared the encouraging Bancroft fan. “Keep
it up; they can’t get ’em all. You’ll put the blanket on him yet.”
The delight of the visitors may be imagined as Craddock finished
Kingsbridge’s list by handing the last three men upon it the same
medicine he had given the first six. Three innings had passed, nine
men had faced him, and not one of them had even hit the ball into the
diamond. It began to seem that the man who had prophesied no hits and
no runs for the Kinks might not be such a fool, after all.
Locke’s manner was almost trancelike as he toed the slab at the
beginning of the fourth. His first ball was wide, but Trollop caught
the second one on the seam and pounded it for two sacks, bringing the
Bancroft rooters up, roaring. They continued to roar, as Grady bunted
and sacrificed Trollop to third, where, with only one out, he was in
position to score on the squeeze play if the Bullies saw fit to try it.
They did try it, but, knowing what was coming, Locke pitched to Mace
high and close, and Mace bumped a little pop fly straight into Lefty’s
hands. Holding the ball a moment, Locke smiled at Trollop, who made
ludicrous efforts to stop and turn back toward third. The roaring of
the Bancrofters died away in a disappointed groan as they saw the ball
tossed to Fred Lace for the third put-out.
“Oh, this is something of a game!” crowed Stark, capering toward the
bench. “It’s about time we came to life and touched that gangling
port-sider up a few. Stop watching his contortions, Labelle. This is no
vaudeville performance; you’re here to play baseball. Try to hit him,
anyhow.”
“You bet!” growled the Canadian. “I hit de ball dis time; you watch.”
Nevertheless, although he slashed viciously, he did not graze the first
one.
Suddenly Reddy Crandall, who had spent his time on the bench staring at
the long-geared pitcher, struck his thigh a resounding slap.
“I’ve got him!” he declared excitedly. “I’ve spotted that guy! I know
him now! Craddock, hey? No wonder them Bancrofters come up to this town
to-day loaded with bettin’ money. Craddock! Why, that’s ‘Pinwheel’
Murtel, of the National League, as good a man as Matty himself, only
he’s got a rotten disposition, an’ no manager can handle him. He’s been
blacklisted and outlawed time after time, but he’s such a wonder they
always fix it up somehow, an’ take him back when he wants to come.
That’s Murtel, I’ll bet my life on it. Fellers, we’ll never score
to-day with _him_ pitchin’.”
Stark, standing near, had ceased to swing the two bats he had picked
up, listening to the excited words of Crandall. He had never seen the
famous and eccentric Pinwheel Murtel, but he had heard a great deal
about the man, as, doubtless, had every other baseball player in the
country.
“By Jove!” he muttered, having turned to stare at the lengthy twirler.
“I believe you’re right, Reddy.”
“I _know_ I’m right,” said Crandall. “I’ve been trying to figure out
who the man was, and I’ve got him at last. At his best, he can walk any
three of us without a man down and then keep us from scoring. This game
is as good as settled, and a lot of Kingsbridge sports have lost some
good money to-day.”
“Nonsense, Crandall!” said Locke swiftly. “Even if the man _is_
Pinwheel Murtel, he isn’t invincible.”
“There goes Pete ag’in,” said Reddy, as Labelle fanned out the second
time. “Nobody’s even touched him.”
“What of it? The best pitchers in the business can be hit.”
“But not by batters in our class.”
“Yes, sometimes they can be hit by batters in our class. Mathewson
has been batted and beaten by a scrub country team, at least once,
according to his own confession; and other top-notch pitchers have met
the same treatment, much to their surprise.
“We’re going to fight this game through to the last ditch, I hope,
whether that man is Murtel or not. There’s no knowing what may happen.
At any rate, if I can hold them down, and you fellows keep on giving
me the support you have, they may not get any runs. We’re not going to
quit, are we, just because we’ve found out that Craddock is Murtel?”
“No,” rasped Jim Sockamore, the Indian, “we won’t quit! You’re right,
Lefty; mebbe well beat that bunch yet, if we support you.”
It was plain, however, that Crandall’s discovery had taken the courage
out of him, and it seemed to fade away entirely as Stark, also, fanned.
Reddy stood up to the plate with his heart in his shoes and swung
apathetically, being sliced down without waste of energy on the part of
the pitcher.