away, waving his long bat.
“Don’t you pay no ’tention to the cap ’n, Lefty,” he drawled, in a nasal voice. “I can hit um acrost the knees jest as well as anywhere else. He’s tryin’ to fool ye.”
“Let’s see about that,” said Locke, putting one over low and close on the inside.
Bemis smashed out a hot grounder and went galloping to first with tremendous, ground-covering strides. For all of his awkward walk and the fact that he ran like a frightened giraffe, it would have required an excellent sprinter to beat him from the plate to the initial sack.
Norris, the shortstop, got his hand on the ball and stopped it, but it twisted out of his fingers. It was an error on a hard chance, for by the time he secured the sphere there was no prospect of getting either runner.
“Now that’s what I call misfortune when regarded from one angle, and mighty lucky if viewed from another,” said Wiley. “Beamy carries a rabbit’s foot; that’s why he’s second on our batting disorder. He does things like that when they’re least expected the most.”
Schaeffer was coaching at first. “Is it Lefty Locke against us pitching?” he cried. “And such an easiness! Took a lead, efrybody, and move along when the Irisher hits.”
“I hate to do ut,” protested Barney O’Reilley, shaking his red head as he walked into position. “It’s a pain it gives me, Lefty, but I have to earn me salary. No bad feelings, ould man. You understand.”
“Just one moment,” called Wiley, holding up his hand. “Sympathy impels me. I have a tender heart. Lefty, I feel that I must warn you again. This descendant of the Irish nobility can hit anything that sails over the platter. If it were not a distressing fact that Schepps, who follows, is even a more royal batter, I would advise you to walk O’Reilley. As it is, I am in despair.”
The crowd was not pleased. It began to beg Locke to fan O’Reilley, and when the Irishman missed the first shoot the pleadings increased.
“Barney is sympathetic also,” cried Cap’n Wiley; “but he’d better not let his sympathy carry him amain, whatever that is. I shall fine him if he doesn’t hit the ball.”
Locke had begun to let himself out in earnest, for the situation was threatening. It would not be wise needlessly to permit the Wind Jammers to get the jump. They were a confident, aggressive team, and would fight to the last gasp to hold an advantage. The southpaw realized that it would be necessary to do some really high-grade twirling to prevent them from grabbing that advantage in short order.
Tug Schepps, a tough-looking, hard-faced person, was swinging two bats and chewing tobacco as he waited to take his turn. He was a product of the sand lots.
“Land on it, Barney, old top!” urged Tug. “Swat it on der trade-mark an’ clean der sacks. Dis Lefty boy don’t seem such a much.”
Locke shot over a high one.
“Going up!” whooped O’Reilley, ignoring it.
“Get ’em down below the crow’s nest,” entreated Wiley. “You’re not pitching to Bemis now.”
The southpaw quickly tried a drop across the batter’s shoulders, and, not expecting that the ball had so much on it, Barney let it pass. He made a mild kick when the mayor-umpire called a strike. “It’s astigmatism ye have, Mr. Mayor,” he said politely.
The next one was too close, but O’Reilley fell back and hooked it past third base. Even though the left fielder had been playing in, Nuccio might possibly have scored had he not stumbled as he rounded the corner. Wiley started to grab the fallen runner, but remembered the new rule just in time, and desisted.
“Put about!” he shouted. “Head back to the last port!”
The Italian scrambled back to the sack, spluttering. He reached it ahead of the throw from the fielder. Cap’n Wiley pretended to shed tears.
“Is it possible,” he muttered, shaking his head, “that this is the great Lefty Locke? If so, it must be true that his star is on the decline. Alas and alack, life is filled with such bitter disappointments.”
Whether the regret of Wiley was real or pretended, it was shared by a large part of the spectators, who were friendly to the local team; for Locke had become very well liked in Fernandon, both by the citizens of the place and the Northern visitors.
It must not be imagined that, with the corners crowded and no one down, Locke was fully at his ease. He had decided to make this game the test of his ability to “come back,” and already it looked as if the first inning would give him his answer. If he could not successfully hold in check this heterogeneous collection of bush talent, it was easy to understand what would happen to him the next time he essayed to twirl for the Blue Stockings. A sickening sense of foreboding crept over him, but his lips wore a smile, and he showed no sign of being perturbed.
Schepps was at the plate, having discarded one of the bats he had been swinging. He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Always t’ought I could bump a real league pitcher,” he said. “Put one acrost, pal, an’ I’ll tear der cover off.”
Locke hesitated. He had been using the new delivery he had acquired to spare his shoulder. In previous games it had proved effective enough to enable him to continue four or five innings, but now–
Suddenly he whipped the ball to third, sending Nuccio diving headlong back to the sack. The crafty little Italian had been creeping off, ready to make a flying dash for the plate. He was safe by a hair.
“Not on your movie film!” cried Cap’n Wiley. “It can’t be done!”
Lefty did not hear him. He was gazing past the Marine Marvel at the face of a man who, taking care to keep himself unobtrusively in the background, was peering at him over the shoulders of a little group of spectators–a grinning, mocking derisive face.
It was Weegman. And Weegman knew!
CHAPTER VIII
AT NECESSITY’S DEMAND
Even after the ball was thrown back from third, and Lefty had turned away, that grinning, mocking face continued to leer at him. Wherever he looked it hovered before his mental vision like a taunting omen of disaster. He was “all in,” and Weegman knew it. The man had told him, with sneering bluntness, that his “old soup bone was on the blink.” Yet, entertaining this settled conviction regarding Locke’s worthlessness as a pitcher, Weegman had made a long and wearisome journey in order that he might be absolutely sure, by putting the deal through in person, of signing the southpaw for the Blue Stockings at an increased salary. The very fact that he had been offered the position of manager, under conditions that would make him a mere puppet without any real managerial authority, gave the proposition a blacker and more sinister look.
Sommers was signaling. Lefty shook his head to rid himself of that hateful chimera. Misunderstanding, the catcher quickly changed the sign. The pitcher delivered the ball called for first, and it went through Sommers like a fine shot through an open sieve.
Nuccio scored from third with ease, Bemis and O’Reilley advancing at the same time. The Wind Jammers roared from the bench. Cap’n Wiley threw up his hands.
“Furl every stitch!” cried the manager of the visitors. “Batten the hatches! The storm is upon us! It’s going to be a rip-sizzler. I’m afraid the wreck will be a total loss.”
Covering
