_A Victory and a Defeat_
Another crowd of enormous size greeted the Bears as they raced onto the
ball field early the next afternoon to play the doubleheader that was
to complete the season's series against the Jackrabbits.
The paper that had printed the attack upon the team had given space to
a partial retraction, and, although the players did not know it, the
reporter who had written the article had been suspended during an
investigation that was inspired because Technicalities Feehan had,
after overwhelming two editors with his statistics, convinced them that
no basis of truth existed for such charges.
The Bears were happy and confident. With a full game the advantage and
only five more games to play, and those comparatively easy; with the
pitching staff in good condition, they considered the pennant as won.
McCarthy and Swanson almost had forgotten to keep watch upon Williams.
They despised him, and in the club house and on the field they ignored
him completely. Several of the other players, although they knew
nothing of the plot, had come to ignore the pitcher, and he shunned
them all. He seemed nervous and laboring under a heavy strain. Two or
three times he started toward Clancy as if to speak to him, but each
time the manager, who was watching him, turned away to address another
player. Finally, Williams seemed to gather his courage, and with a
pretense of indifference he sauntered toward Clancy, who was talking
with several of the players.
"Which game do I work, Bill?" he asked, tossing his glove down and
picking up a bat.
"I think I'll save you for the first game of the World's Series,
Adonis," replied Clancy. "It's a shame to waste you beating these dub
clubs."
The hidden sarcasm in the words stung. The pitcher started, then
rallied and said:
"What have you got it in for me about? Haven't I worked my head off to
win for your team?"
"I haven't made any kick," responded Clancy shortly. "When I have a
kick coming I'll make it good and strong."
"I'm not joking, Bill," the pitcher persisted. "My arm is good, and a
lot of my friends are wondering why I don't work when it's my turn."
"Tell them," said Clancy very quietly, "that I have only one third
baseman, and that I don't want him killed."
Williams's eyes were opened. He felt beneath the bitter calmness of
the manager's voice the fact that Clancy knew--at least part of the
truth. His jaw dropped and his face went white. Clancy, with a short
laugh, started to run away.
"Then I don't work to-day?" Alarm, pleading and a note of despair in
his tones as if he realized what the manager's decision meant to him.
"No, not to-day," replied Clancy, watching him sharply.
He turned away with exaggerated carelessness, and the rat-faced,
cold-eyed man in the stands, who had been watching them closely,
gritted out an oath and turned to Barney Baldwin, who was sitting
beside him:
"He isn't going to let Williams pitch," He said. "We're done for,
Baldwin."
The politician turned purple with rage.
"Well, by ----, Edwards," he snarled, "we'll see about this. I'll put
this over or know why."
The first game of the afternoon was a romp for the Bears. They scored
early, and by clean hitting and dashing play on the bases, piled up
tallies until the opponents were hopelessly defeated before the fifth
inning. The game was a stern chase from that to the finish, and the
Bears, scoring steadily, won, 9 to 2.
Instead of being elated by the victory Clancy seemed worried. On the
bench he was fretful and uneasy.
"Don't you fellows take any wide chances in the next game," he decreed
while the pitchers were warming up for the final battle against the
Jackrabbits. "We want this game. I'm sending Wilcox in to win it.
Who's that young bird the Rabbits are warming up? Hoskins, eh?
Busher? Well, watch him. These young fellows with nothing but a
strong arm are dangerous as the deuce at this time of the year."
Unlike their manager, the players were confident. Their easy victory
in the first game, the fact that Wilcox, their best right-handed
pitcher, was to start the game against an unknown and untried "busher"
fresh from some small team and nervous through desire to win his first
game, made it seem as if victory should be easy.
They blanked the Jackrabbits easily in the first inning, and, obedient
to orders, attacked the pitching of the youngster, Hoskins, with every
art known to them. They coached noisily, they waited at the plate,
they crowded close to the plate and they ran at the ball.
"What's that bird got?" demanded Clancy as each batter returned to the
bench. "Nothin', eh? Nothing, and you swingin' your bat like you was
stirrin' apple butter? Nothin'? Say, you fellows get busy and make a
run or two."
In spite of the orders, the abuse and criticism heaped upon them by the
anxious manager, the Bears were not able to hit the balls offered by
the tall, cool youngster picked up by the Jackrabbits from some obscure
club. He had steadied from his early symptoms of stage fright and was
pitching beautifully. His curve ball angled across the plate, his
speed jumped high across the shoulders of the batters. The fifth
inning came with the score nothing to nothing.
The players no longer were confident. The batters no longer came back
to the bench with reports that the pitcher "had nothing," but they grew
serious and anxious and silent. They tried bunting, but the
Jackrabbits were prepared and checked the assault. They changed, and
instead of waiting they hit the first ball pitched. They realized now
that they were engaged in a contest with a pitcher of merit, for they
knew the difference between hitting unluckily and hitting good pitching.
Wilcox, a quiet, studious pitcher, was among the first to realize that
the youngster was pitching well.
"Get a run for me, fellows," he begged. "This kid has a world of stuff
on the ball. Just meet that fast one--poke it, and it may go over
safe. Get a run for me and we'll trim them."
The veteran was pitching slowly, cautiously. Two or three times the
Jackrabbits threatened to score, but each time Wilcox put another twist
on the ball and stopped them. Inning after inning he pleaded with his
fellows to make a run, and Clancy stormed and grew sarcastic with each
failure.
"Get him this time, fellows; finish it up," begged Clancy when the
Jackrabbits had been blanked. Norton was the first batter. He chopped
his bat with a short stroke and sent a safe hit flying to right. A
sacrifice pushed him along to second base and the crowd commenced to
cheer as Pardridge came to bat. The big fellow drove his bat crashing
against the first ball. It went on a line almost straight toward
second base. Norton was tearing for the plate when O'Neill, the
Jackrabbit second baseman, running across, leaped and stretched out one
hand. The ball stuck in his extended glove, he came down squarely on
second base and the triumphant scream of the crowd ended in a gasp of
disappointment at the realization that a double play had balked the
Bears' attack and ended the inning.
The Jackrabbits, aroused by their narrow escape, attacked with new
vigor. A fumble gave them the opening. Despite the most determined
efforts of Wilcox they forced a run across the plate and the Bears were
thrown back under a handicap.
McCarthy was the first batter. He crowded close to the plate,
determined to force the young pitcher to earn his victory. He refused
to hit until two strikes and three balls had been called, and then,
shortening his grip upon his bat, he hit the straight, fast ball
sharply to center for a base. Instead of sacrificing, Swanson received
orders to hit and run and, although he was thrown out at first base,
McCarthy reached second, and Babbitt, the first baseman, came to bat.
Hoskins appeared nervous. The strain was telling upon the youngster,
and Babbitt hit the first ball. From the sound of the bat hitting the
ball, McCarthy knew the hit was not on the ground, and as he started
homeward a glance showed him that Merode, the speedy little center
fielder, was running back into the deep field with his eye on the ball.
It was a fly-out unless Merode muffed, and McCarthy, knowing that such
a muff happens only four or five times a season, returned and perched
upon second base, ready to sprint for third the instant the ball struck
the fielder's hands. The thought flashed through his brain that the
Blues had released Merode because of a weak arm and a habit of lobbing
the ball back to the infielders instead of throwing it back with all
his power. The ball fell into the upstretched hands of the outfielder.
McCarthy leaped and raced for third base. He knew that Merode would
not throw there because of his weak arm and the length of the throw, so
he swung a little outside the base path, slowed up as he turned third,
and glanced toward the field. The ball was coming in. Merode had
thrown it slowly and carelessly toward the shortstop. McCarthy leaped
forward toward the plate. The shortstop, running out to meet the slow
throw, heard the cry of alarm from the fielders and the roar of
excitement from the crowd. He knew what was happening. He grabbed the
ball, whirled and threw like a shot to the plate. McCarthy was
two-thirds of the way home; but the ball, striking the ground, bounded
into the hands of the catcher six feet ahead of him. Like a flash
McCarthy hurled his body inside the line, with one foot outstretched to
touch the goal. He had out-guessed the catcher. His foot, stretched
out, felt the sharp jar of some object, then struck the plate, and,
rolling over and over, he arose covered with dust.
The crowd was roaring. Nine out of ten thought McCarthy had counted
with the tying run, but Bill Tascott, crouching over the plate, jerked
his thumb over his shoulder, signaling that the runner was out and the
Bears beaten.
Like flood waters breaking a dam, the crowd surged from the stands,
shouting, screaming, threatening. A thousand men, mad with
disappointment, swarmed around the umpire, pushing, shoving, shaking
fists and screaming. McCarthy pushed his way hurriedly into the mob,
which was growing more and more threatening.
"Let him alone. He was right," he cried loudly. "The ball touched my
foot as I slid in."
Those who heard him stopped, and in an instant the danger was over.
The crowd, subsiding suddenly, began to melt away. Tascott grinned as
he turned to McCarthy.
"That was tough luck, Kohinoor," he said. "I was pulling for you to
beat the ball, and you had it beat, but your leg kicked up and hit the
ball as you slid. I'd have given a month's salary to call you safe."