A GAME WORTH WINNING
Locke had forgotten the blue parasol and its owner; he had no fleeting
thought for Benton King; he was heart and soul in the game.
With one out, it seemed an excellent time for Kingsbridge to keep up
the bunting, and attempt to score on it by the “squeeze,” so Bancroft’s
infield drew closer and the outfielders quickly came in.
At the plate, Stark gave a secret signal, changing the style of play,
and then he set the local crowd frantic by meeting Murtel’s high one
on the trade mark. With the outfielders playing in their usual places,
that line drive would have been good for a clean single, but while they
were chasing it down, Larry dug all the way round to third, Oulds and
Labelle romping over the rubber with the runs that tied the score.
The whole Kingsbridge team was laughing, now, while Murtel, enraged
over being outguessed and deceived, was almost frenzied.
“It’s a great top piece you have, Lefty, old pal,” cried Larry Stark.
“That was the trick to get ’em going. Look at Pinwheel champ the bit.”
But Hutchinson was back on the bench now, and he directed Crandall to
hit the ball out. Reddy, trying to respond manfully, boosted an infield
fly, and Stark was forced to remain on the sack while it was caught.
Had Anastace, coming next, taken a daring chance and bunted, it is
possible that the Bullies might have been thrown into confusion again;
but he had orders from Hutchinson to hit, and in trying to do so he
succumbed to Murtel’s strategy, expiring in the box.
“Oh, this is some game, believe me!” shouted a Kingsbridger. “Hold ’em
where they are, Lefty. You’ve got the stuff to do it. We depend on you.”
The Bancrofters who had wagered money on the tussle were not as
cocksure as they had been, and doubtless more than one, Manager Riley
included, regretted that matters had not been privately arranged in
advance so that it would not be necessary to rely almost wholly on the
prowess their new left-handed pitcher.
Surely their regrets became still more acute when, in the seventh,
Locke showed no let-up in form, and was not even ruffled when McGovern
reached first on an infield error, the other three batters to face him
going the way of all flesh.
“Oh, you Lefty!” was once more the rejoicing cry of the palpitating
Kingsbridgers.
Murtel came back with a shut-out, although Hinkey led off with a
scratch hit.
“Hold ’em, Lefty――hold ’em!” was the beseeching cry.
Bangs and Murtel faded like morning dew before a burning sun, but
Harney got into a speedy one and banged it for two hassocks, setting
the shaking Bancrofters off again in a tremendous uproar. Nevertheless,
the lucky batter remained at second, where Stark and Labelle kept him
dancing back and forth while Locke took Trollop’s measure and put him
away until the next game should be played.
With no one batting ahead of him, Locke advanced to the pan in the
last of the eighth without instructions. The first ball was too
close, but the second came slanting over, and he bunted. Again it
was the unexpected, and never had a prettier bunt been pulled off.
Nevertheless, it was only Tom’s wonderful knack of starting at high
speed with the first jump and covering the ground like a streak that
enabled him to reach the sack a gasping breath ahead of the ball.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.
The Bullies started to kick, nearly every man on the team taking part
in it. The crowd hooted and hissed, but it was only the nerve of the
umpire in pulling his watch which finally sent the Bancroft players,
growling, back to their positions. There was so much money wagered on
the game that they could not afford to lose it through forfeiture; but
henceforth they badgered the umpire on almost every decision, even
scoffing when he declared in their favor.
Labelle sacrificed Locke to second. Stark, thirsting for a hit, hoisted
a fly to center. Then, just as the visitors were breathing easier,
Crandall smashed a drive into right field.
Locke was on the way to third even before bat and ball met. Sockamore,
coaching, seeing Tom coming like the wind, took a desperate chance,
and, with a furious flourish of his arms, signaled for him to keep on.
Out in right field Mace got the sphere and poised himself for a throw
to the pan.
There was a choking hush. Staring, breathless, suffering with suspense,
the watchers waited.
“Slide!” yelled Sockamore, with a shriek like the blast of a locomotive
whistle.
Spikes first, Locke slid. The whistling ball spanked into Bangs’
clutches and he lunged to make the tag. But Tom’s feet had slipped
across the rubber, and the downward motion of the umpire’s open,
outspread hand declared him safe.
Again the Bullies protested, and again the umpire was compelled to
produce his watch. With difficulty the excited crowd was kept off the
field.
Laughing, Stark had helped Locke to rise, and made a show of brushing
some of the dust from him.
“It’s your game that wins to-day, if you can hold them down now,”
declared Larry. “It was bunting when they weren’t expecting it that did
the trick. Oh, say, there’ll be some sore heads in Bancroft to-night!”
Henry Cope came bursting out of the crowd back of the bench to shake
hands with Locke.
“Sufferin’ Moses, whut a game!” he exclaimed. “If I ain’t under the
doctor’s care ter-morrer it’ll be queer. Keep ’em right where they be,
an’ we’ve won.”
“Lots of good that will do us when the game is counted out of the
series,” sneered Hutchinson.
“Even if they count it out,” returned the grocer, “folks round this
town’re goin’ to have a heap o’ Bancroft’s money t’ spend.”
Reddy Crandall did not score. He had done his part well, and he
uttered no complaint when Anastace failed to hit.
The Bullies had not given up. Savage, sarcastic, insolent, they fought
it out in the first of the ninth, bearing themselves, until the last
man was down, as if they still believed they would win. Locke, however,
had them at his mercy, refusing to prolong the agony by letting a
hitter reach first.
With some difficulty he fought off the delighted Kingsbridgers who
swarmed, cheering, around him, and would have lifted him to their
shoulders. When he finally managed to break clear of the throng he
thought suddenly of Janet, and looked round for her.
Benton King was driving toward the gate by which teams and autos
were admitted to the field. She had lowered her parasol, and, before
disappearing through the gate, she turned to gaze backward, as if
looking for some one in the midst of the still-cheering crowd that
covered the diamond.