catcher.
“It was my fault,” was the prompt acknowledgment; “but it won’t happen again.”
“I hope not,” said Sommers. He wanted to suggest that Locke should retire at once and let Matthews take up the pitching, but he refrained.
The southpaw was doing some serious thinking as he walked back to the mound. However well his newly acquired delivery had seemed to serve him on other occasions, he was convinced that it would not do now; either he must pitch in his own natural way and do his best, or he must retire and let Dade Matthews try to check the overconfident aggressors. If he retired, he would prolong the uncertainty in his own mind; he would leave himself in doubt as to whether or not there was any prospect of his return to the Big League as a twirler worthy of his hire. More than doubt, he realized, he would be crushed by a conviction that he was really down and out.
“I’ve pampered my arm long enough,” he decided. “I’m going to find out if there’s anything left in it.”
Perhaps the decision was unwise. The result of the game with the Wind Jammers was of no importance, but Locke felt that, for his own peace of mind, he must know what stuff was left in him. And there was no one present with authority, no coach, no counselor, to restrain him. There was a strange, new gleam in his eyes when he once more toed the slab. His faint smile had not vanished, but it had taken lines of grimness.
Schepps tapped the plate with his bat. “Come on, pal,” he begged; “don’t blow up. Gimme one of der real kind, an’ lemme have a swat at it.”
The crowd was silent; even the chattering darkies had ceased their noise. Only the Wind Jammers jubilated on the bench and the coaching lines.
Poising himself, Locke caught Sommer’s signal, and nodded. Then he swung his arm with the old free, supple, whiplash motion, and the ball that left his fingers cut the air like a streak of white, taking a really remarkable hop. Schepps’ “swat” was wasted.
“Now, dat’s like it!” cried the sandlotter. “Where’ve you been keepin’ dat kind, old boy? Gimme a duplicate.”
Lefty watched Bemis, the long-legged ground coverer, working away toward the plate, and drove him back. But he seemed to have forgotten O’Reilley, and the Irishman was taking a lead on which he should have little trouble in scoring if Schepps drove out a safety. Farther and farther he crept up toward third.
Sommers tugged at his mask with an odd little motion. Like a flash the southpaw whirled about and shot the ball to second, knowing some one would be there to take the throw. Mel Gates was the man who covered the bag, and O’Reilley found himself caught between second and third. Gates went after him, and the Irishman ran toward third. But Locke had cut in on the line, and he took a throw from Gates that caused O’Reilley to turn back abruptly. Behind Gates, Norris was covering the cushion. Tremain came down a little from third to back Lefty up.
Colby had raced from first base to the plate in order to support Sommers, for Bemis was swiftly creeping down to make a dash. On the coaching line, Cap’n Wiley did a wild dance. The spectators were thrilled by the sudden excitement of the moment.
Lefty ran O’Reilley back toward second, and he knew Bemis was letting himself out in an attempt to score. Swinging instantly, Locke made a rifle-accurate throw to Sommers, who jammed the ball on to the long-geared runner as he was sliding for the plate. The affair had been so skillfully managed that not only was O’Reilley prevented from advancing, but also the attempt to sneak a tally while the Irishman was being run down had resulted disastrously for the Wind Jammers.
“Dat’s der only way dey can get us out,” said Schepps. “Dis Lefty person looks to me like a lemon!”
Cap’n Wiley was philosophically cheerful. “Just a little lull in the tornado,” he said. “It’s due to strike again in a minute.”
Lefty looked the confident Schepps over, and then he gave him a queer drop that deceived him even worse than the swift hopper. The spectators, who had been worried a short time before, now expressed their approval; and when, a minute later, the southpaw whiffed the sandlotter, there was a sudden burst of handclapping and explosions of boisterous laughter from the delighted darkies.
“Wh-who’s dat man said lemon?” cried one. “Dat Lefty pusson sho’ handed him one dat time!”
“Is it possible,” said Cap’n Wiley, “that I’m going to be compelled to revise my dates regarding that wreck?” Then he roared at the Swede: “Get into the game, Oleson! It’s your watch on deck, and you want to come alive. The wrong ship’s being scuttled.”
“Aye, aye, captain!” responded Oleson. “Mebbe Ay do somethin’ when Ay get on the yob. Yust keep your eye on me.” Believing himself a hitter superior to the men who had touched Locke up so successfully at the beginning of the game, he strode confidently forth, for all of the failure of Schepps.
Sizing up the Swede, Lefty tested him with a curve, but Oleson betrayed no disposition to reach. A drop followed, and the batter fouled it. His style of swinging led the southpaw to fancy that he had a preference for drops, and therefore Locke wound the next one round his neck, puncturing his weakness. Not only did Oleson miss, but he swung in a manner that made it doubtful if he would drive the ball out of the infield if he happened to hit one of that kind.
“Hit it where you missed it!” implored Wiley. “Don’t let him bamboozle you with the chin wipers.” Then he turned on O’Reilley. “Cast off that mooring! Break your anchor loose and get under way! Man the halyards and crack on every stitch! You’ve got to make port when Ole stings the horsehide.”
In spite of himself, Lefty was compelled to laugh outright at the Marine Marvel’s coaching contortions. “Calm yourself, cap’n,” he advised. “The hurricane is over.”
“How can I calm myself when calamity threatens?” was the wild retort. “You are a base deceiver, Lefty. Such chicanery is shameful! I don’t know what chicanery means, but it seems to fit the offense.”
And now the spectators fell to laughing at the swarthy little man, who did not seem to be so very offensive, after all, and who was injecting more than a touch of vaudeville comedy into the game.
Oleson waited patiently, still determined to hit, although somewhat dismayed by his two failures to gauge the left-hander’s slants. But when Lefty suddenly gave him another exactly like the last, he slashed at it awkwardly and fruitlessly. The crowd broke into a cheer, and the Swede turned dazedly from the plate, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow.
“That Lefty he bane some pitcher,” admitted Oleson. “He got a good yump ball.”
CHAPTER IX
TORTURING DOUBT
To a degree, Locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been a sheer waste of time. Working against batters who were dangerous, his artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would hold them in check. He had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted to his natural form.
But what would that do to his shoulder? Could he pitch like that and go the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? Should he attempt it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last heart-breaking game in the Big League.
Involuntarily,
