It was “Bush” Aldrich, of the Specters, who started the trouble by smashing out a two-base hit in the seventh. Bush was one of the latest acquisitions of that hard-hitting, snappy, scrappy aggregation of Big League talent which had fought its way into the first division, and was giving last season’s pennant winners, the Blue Stockings, a decidedly uncomfortable time holding their all too scanty lead.
Bush had already shown his ability to stay with fast company by getting two clean singles off Grist, the Blue Stocking twirler, but fine fielding had prevented either bingle from being effective. Now, however, with one out, and a man on first and third, either through luck or cleverness, he hit again at the psychological moment to cause a break in the hard-fought game.
Grist, sure that he had fathomed the youngster’s weakness, tried his sharp outdrop, which had pulled the right fielder more than once before. This time, however, Aldrich was ready for it. Poising a bat that was a bit longer than any he had used before, he stepped in as the ball curved and smote it a crack which brought half the spectators in the crowded stands to their feet with a concerted gasp of dismay.
As the sphere whistled out on a line, Larry Dalton, the Blue Stocking second baseman, flung up his hands in a ludicrous gesture of despair. Brock, the slim, speedy center fielder, had already turned his back on the home plate, and was flying toward the fence like a deer that has heard the whistling whine of a hunter’s bullet. Unfortunately, the ball held up better than he expected, and, though he strained every nerve, he saw that there was little chance to make the catch.
With a last desperate spurt, he launched himself through the air like a catapult, both hands outstretched. The horsehide struck the ends of his fingers, and a despairing groan rose from the staring fans as it fell to the ground and rolled to one side.
Brock snatched it up, and whipped it back into the diamond. Bugs Murray was just jogging over the plate. Logie, the Specter shortstop, had rounded second, and was flying toward third, urged on by staccato promptings from the coaching line. Aldrich was fairly tearing up the ground between first and second. As the sphere came whirling toward the waiting Dalton’s eager hands, Bush slid.
The umpire, squatting to watch the play, put his hand out, palm downward; and another groan arose from the stands, punctuated, by protesting yells and bitter comment.
“They’re gone!” shouted the Specter captain joyously. “They’re up in the air! Hit her on the nose, Rowdy; you can do it!”
Kenyon, the visitors’ clever second baseman, pranced, grinning, to the plate, seemingly inspired with new life. Grist caught the ball deftly, apparently undisturbed by the unfortunate break. As he paused to drive Logie back to third, however, he discovered that Carson, the new manager, had left the coaching line and returned to the bench, from which he could get an accurate view of the entire field.
“He needn’t worry,” muttered the pitcher to himself, as he turned back to face the smiling batter. “We’re still one run to the good, and this little flurry is going to have the kibosh put on it right here and now.”
He had little fear of Kenyon doing anything; so far Rowdy’s hitting had been of a decidedly negligible quality. Perhaps it was this touch of unconscious carelessness which proved Pete Grist’s undoing; perhaps it was due simply to the mysterious hitting streak which comes at the most unexpected times, and without apparent reason. At all events, after playing the waiting game to the last moment, Kenyon finally smashed a sizzler through the short field, scoring Logie, and himself reaching first by a great sprint.
Instantly the entire Specter visiting team began openly to rejoice:
“Up in a balloon!” “Got him going!” “Here’s where we lock it up in a valise!” “Murder it, Ted, old man!” “Laminate it! Only one down, you know.”
A low, concerted growl began to sound from the spectators who crowded the stands. Ready to shout themselves hoarse for a man pitching a winning game, their displeasure was even more swift, and quite without mercy. Here and there a shrill voice bawled admonition and biting criticism, which sounded above the barking chorus of the Blue Stocking infield:
“Get into him, Pete, old man!”
“Kill him, old boy! You can do it!”
“Warp ’em round his neck!”
A spot of red glowed dully in each tanned cheek as Grist dug his copper toe clip into the earth and cuddled the ball under his chin. The sudden yelping from his teammates told the pitcher that they were not sure of him. They were seeking to brace him up, as if he had been a raw recruit instead of the bright particular star of the Blue Stocking pitching staff. Moreover his quick eye had not failed to notice the hasty appearance of two men from the sheltered players’ bench, who loped off to the right, shedding sweaters as they went.
There are times when it takes very little to upset the equilibrium of the most seasoned twirler, and apparently this was one of them. For six innings Grist had pitched an almost errorless game, and there was every reason why he should do his best to finish it.
Dillon was laid up, Bill Orth had a bad shoulder, and both Reilly and Lumley were notoriously independable at a moment like this. There was Lefty Locke, to be sure, but the thought of this brilliant young southpaw who had, in a few short months, pushed his way upward until he rivaled Grist himself in the esteem of players and fans alike, made the older pitcher squirm inwardly, and brought a dogged, determined expression to his face.
A moment later there was a crack, a yell of joy from the Specters, a groan from the despairing fans. In spite of his self-control, a smothered gasp of dismay burst from Grist’s lips. Knowing Red Callahan’s impetuosity, he had tried to tempt him with a teasing outdrop. That he managed to connect with it was probably quite as much a surprise to the sorrel-topped third baseman as to anyone; but connect he did in beautiful style, smashing out a single which sent Aldrich across the rubber with the leading run.
Above the uproar of hoots and yells and catcalls from the stands, the new manager, half rising to signal Orth to go into the box, heard a sound he had rather been expecting for the past few minutes:
“Carson! One moment!”
It was the sharp, incisive voice of the Blue Stockings’ owner, who sat with his daughter in one of the boxes just behind the bench, and there was an imperative note in it which brought the manager hurrying in that direction.
“Did you call me, Mr. Collier?” he asked, as he reached the box.
The tall, broad-shouldered, keen-faced man bent swiftly over the railing.
“I did,” he replied, in a low tone. “Grist is going to pieces. Why don’t you take him out?”
“I was just going to. I’ve had Orth warming up for three or four minutes.”
Charles Collier frowned. “Orth!” he exclaimed. “But his shoulder’s lame. This is no time to put in a cripple. Why don’t you use your southpaw, Locke?”
“He pitched a hard game yesterday and—”
“And won it,” interrupted the owner swiftly.
“Quite so; but my idea was not to work him too hard,” returned the manager suavely. “Of course, if you wish it—”
“I do. In my opinion he’s the only man who can stop the break and pull things together. He’s got the measure of every one of these fellows. I don’t think you need worry about three innings hurting his arm.”
“Very well,” said Carson. “I’ll send him out there at once.”
His expression was bland and pleasant, but the instant his back was turned he frowned. “Butting in as soon as this, are you?” he muttered, striding toward the bench. “Picked a favorite already, too. I s’pose Pete’ll be sore as a crab, but it can’t be helped. Locke!”
There was a quick movement, and from the players’ bench appeared a tall, lithe, cleanly built, long-armed youngster of twenty-three or so, his cap pushed back on a mass of heavy, dark brown hair, a look of inquiry in his keen, brown eyes.
“Want me?”
“Yes,” said Carson sharply. “Get into the box as quick as you can. I meant to use Orth, but his shoulder’s bad. You’ll have to go in without warming up. And hold ’em, kid. We can’t afford to lose this game, you know.”
Lefty had already yanked off his sweater. Even as the manager finished, he caught the glove tossed out by the second catcher.
“I’ll do my best,” he returned, jerking his cap forward over his eyes.
An instant later he was walking out upon the diamond with a lithe, springy stride which told of splendid muscles under perfect control. And as he came into view of the grandstand, the hoots and yells lessened swiftly, merging with amazing abruptness into a shout of delight, accompanied by a thunderous stamping of feet.
“Oh, you Lefty!” shrieked the fans fondly. “Oh, you kiddo! Kill ’em! Eat ’em alive! Nothin’ doin’ now, Specters. Good night for yours!”