gloomiest; appears to entertain the delusion that he’s taking acrimonious revenge on the world for handing him some sort of a raw deal. It would be a shame to use him against you the whole game, Lefty; he’d make your Grays look like a lot of infirm prunes.”
“Spare us,” pleaded Locke, in mock apprehension.
Jones did not linger long with his teammates on the veranda. With a solemn but friendly bow to Lefty, he passed on into the hotel, Wiley explaining that he was on his way to take his regular daily period of rest. Through the open door the southpaw watched the strange pitcher walk through the office and mount a flight of stairs. And from the little writing room Locke saw Bailey Weegman peer forth, his eyes following the mysterious one until the latter disappeared. Then Weegman hurried to the desk and interviewed the clerk, after which he made an inspection of the names freshly written upon the hotel register.
The man’s behavior was singular, and Lefty decided that, for some reason, Weegman did not care to encounter Jones. This suspicion was strengthened when, scarcely more than an hour later, Charles Collier’s private secretary appeared at the little cottage occupied by Locke and his wife, and stated that he had made a change from the Magnolia Hotel to the Florida House, a second-rate and rather obscure place on the edge of the colored quarter.
“Couldn’t stand for Wiley and his gang of bushwhackers,” Weegman explained. “They made me sick, and I had to get out, even though I’m going to leave town at five-thirty this afternoon. That’s the first through train north that I can catch. Thought I’d let you know so you could find me in case you changed your mind about that offer.”
“You might have spared yourself the trouble,” said Locke coldly.
Weegman made a pretense of laughing. “No telling about that. Mules are obstinate, but even they can be made to change their minds if you build a hot enough fire under them. Don’t forget where you can find me.”
Lefty watched him walking away, and noted that his manner was somewhat nervous and unnatural. “I wonder,” murmured the pitcher, “why you put yourself to so much discomfort to avoid Mysterious Jones.”
Directed by Locke, the Grays put in an hour of sharp practice that forenoon. As Lefty had stated, the team was practically comprised of winter visitors from the North. Some of them had come South for their health, too. Three were well along in the thirties, and one had passed forty. Yet, for all such handicaps, they were an enthusiastic, energetic team, and they could play the game. At least five of them had once been stars on college nines. Having never lost their love for the game, they had rounded into form wonderfully under the coaching of the Big League pitcher. Also, in nearly every game they pulled off more or less of the stuff known as “inside baseball.”
They had been remarkably successful in defeating the teams they had faced, but Locke felt sure that, in spite of the conglomerate and freakish appearance of the Wind Jammers, it was not going to be an easy thing to take a fall out of Cap’n Wiley’s aggregation of talent. The self-styled “Marine Marvel” had a record; with players culled from the brambles as he knocked about the country, he had, in former days, put to shame many a strong minor league outfit that had patronizingly and somewhat disdainfully consented to give him an engagement on an off date. Unless the eccentric and humorously boastful manager of the Wind Jammers had lost much of his judgment and cunning during the recent years that he had been out of the public eye, the fastest independent team would have to keep awake and get a fair share of the breaks in order to trounce him.
Locke warmed up his arm a little, but, even though he felt scarcely a twinge of the lameness and stiffness that had given him so much apprehension, he was cautious. At one time, when the trouble was the worst, he had not been able to lift his left hand to his mouth. A massage expert in Fernandon had done much for him, and he hoped that he had done not a little for himself by perfecting a new style of delivery that did not put so much strain upon his shoulder. Still, until he should be forced to the test, he could never feel quite sure that he would be the same puzzle to the finest batsmen that he had once been. And it must be confessed that he had looked forward with some dread to the day when that test should come.
Suddenly he resolved that, in a way, he would meet the test at once. Doubtless the Wind Jammers were batters of no mean caliber, for Wiley had always got together a bunch of sluggers.
“I’ll do it,” he decided; “I’ll go the limit. If I can’t do that now, after the rest I’ve had and the doctoring my arm has received, there’s not one chance in a thousand that I’ll ever be able to pitch in fast company again.”
CHAPTER VII
THE TEST
Nearly all Fernandon turned out to the game. Many residents of the town, as well as a large number of the visitors from the North, came in carriages and automobiles. The covered reserved seats were filled, and, shielding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, an eager crowd packed the bleachers. On the sandy grass ground back of third base a swarm of chattering, grinning colored people sat and sprawled. Holding themselves proudly aloof from the negroes, a group of lanky, sallow “poor whites,” few of whom could read or write, were displaying their ignorance by their remarks about the game and the players. The mayor of the town had consented to act as umpire. At four o’clock he called “play.”
“Now we’re off!” sang Cap’n Wiley, waltzing gayly forth to the coaching position near third. “Here’s where we hoist anchor and get away with a fair wind.”
Nuccio, the olive-skinned Italian third baseman, selected his bat and trotted to the pan, grinning at Locke.
“Oh, you Lefty!” said he. “We gotta your number.”
“Put your marlinespike against the pill and crack the coating on it,” urged Wiley.
George Sommers, catcher for the Grays, adjusted his mask, crouched, signaled. Locke whipped one over the inside corner, and Nuccio fouled.
“Nicked it!” cried the Marine Marvel. “Now bust it on the figurehead and make for the first mooring. Show our highly steamed friend Lefty that he’s got to pitch to-day if he don’t want the wind taken out of his sails.”
The southpaw tried to lead Nuccio into reaching, but the batter caught himself in his swing. “Puta the ball over, Left,” he pleaded. “Don’t givea me the walk.”
The pitcher smiled and handed up a hopper. The batter fouled again, lifting the ball on to the top of the covered seats.
“I don’t think you need worry about walking,” said Sommers, returning after having made a vain start in pursuit of the sphere. “You’re in a hole already.”
Nuccio smiled. “Wait,” he advised. “I spoil the gooda ones.”
Another ball followed, then Lefty warped one across the comer. Nuccio drove it into right for a pretty single, bringing shouts of approval from the bench of the Wind Jammers. Wiley addressed Locke.
“Really,” he said, “I fear me much that you undervalue the batting capacity of my players. One and all, individually and collectively, they are there with the healthy bingle. Please, I beg of you, don’t let them pound you off the slab in the first inning, for that would puncture a hard-earned reputation and bring tears of regret to my tender eyes. For fear that you may be careless or disdainful, I warn you that this next man can’t touch anything down around his knees; his arms being attached to his shoulders at such a dim and distant altitude, he finds it difficult to reach down so far, even with the longest bat.”
Luther Bemis, the player referred to, was the marvelously tall and lanky center fielder of the Wind Jammers. He
