A modern Big League team is very much like an overgrown family. The men are together every day, and all day. At intervals they spend long hours cooped up in Pullman cars, always putting up at the same hotels while on the road, and frequently the majority of players belonging to a club stop at one particularly favored place at home. They miss little going on about them. As a result of this intimacy it was not long before Locke’s altered demeanor became a topic of discussion among the Blue Stockings.
“I’d like to know what’s worrying the boy,” remarked Spider Grant early one afternoon in the dressing room. “He’s been going round for three or four days with a face a mile long.”
He paused in his leisurely preparations for the game, and glanced inquiringly from one to another of the half dozen men who lounged about the room in various stages of undress.
“He’s sure got a grouch,” agreed Rufe Hyland, intent on the adjustment of his sliding pads. “Ain’t seen him crack a smile in so long I’ve forgot what he looks like grinnin’. Mebbe he’s peeved at the way Carson’s been runnin’ him in at the tail end of games to pull us out of holes. Bein’ a life-saver an’ gettin’ no credit’s enough to get any man raw.”
“That’s true enough,” agreed Grant. “He hasn’t had a whack at a straight game for over a week. Still, that wouldn’t turn a decent fellow like Lefty into a chronic grouch; he’s got too much sense. No, he acts to me like he was in love, and his girl had given him the double cross or something. How about that, Larry? You ought to know.”
Dalton, wearing little more than his usual smile, shrugged his muscular shoulders and bustled among the contents of his locker.
“Wouldn’t wonder if you’d hit it, Spider,” he returned, straightening up with a flannel shirt in his hands. “He has got a girl—regular peacherino, too—and I’ve got an idea that she has cross-signaled him lately. He spends half his time writing letters, and tears most of ’em up. That’s a bad sign, you know.”
“Huh!” growled Hyland. “This skirt business makes me sick. There ain’t a thing in it. I’ve been hitched twice, and divorced the same number—an’ never again. I wouldn’t make sheep’s eyes at the best-lookin’ dame in this town, believe me. They git a fellow so fussed that he don’t know whether he’s afoot or horseback. If some female’s throwed the kid down, an’ that’s what he’s grouchin’ about, take it from me he’ll be bustin’ up on the mound one of these days—an’ then where’ll he come off at?”
“Where’ll we come off, you mean,” retorted Grant, with a frown. “He’s the best all-round flinger in this outfit, and if he goes to seed then go-o-od night post-season series.”
There being no other pitchers present, the statement passed uncontradicted. Grant slipped out of his street trousers, carefully folded them, and turned again to Dalton.
“Can’t you find out if that’s it, Larry?” he asked. “If it is, we ought to do something to—”
“Cheese! Cheese!” warned Kid Lewis. “Here he comes.”
A moment later the young southpaw entered the dressing room, curtly responded to jovial greetings—somewhat forced—from the other men, and strode over to his locker. His forehead was corrugated by the frown which had become habitual of late. His eyes were somber. He made no attempt whatever to join in the conversation which swiftly started up again, seeming, in fact, to be almost oblivious to what was going on. He answered two or three direct questions in monosyllables, stripped off his clothes with an absent sort of haste, got into his uniform in much the same manner, and departed, wrapped in gloom, without having volunteered a single remark.
As he disappeared into the corridor, the other players eyed each other significantly.
“I never thought to see Lefty Locke with a face like that on him,” commented Dirk Nelson mournfully. “Why, the boy used to be the life of the whole crowd.”
“If it is a girl who’s responsible,” growled Hyland viciously, “she’d ought to be massecreed. There ain’t a woman livin’ that’s worth makin’ all that fuss about.”
Spider Grant finished lacing his shoes, and stood up, stamping.
“Try if you can’t get wise to the game, Larry,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know as we can do anything, but it’ll be something to be sure. He’ll loosen up to you sooner’n to any of the rest of us.”
Dalton agreed, but without any great exhibition of confidence. He had noticed a marked reserve on the part of Lefty Locke lately, which did not augur well for the extraction of confidences. There was a little more talk on the subject, but it ceased with the arrival of Pete Grist and his bunch of cronies. Soon afterward they all sauntered out to the diamond.
The game that day was the last of a series with the Hornets, and the last which would be played on the home grounds for some time. That night would see the Blue Stockings bound for the territory of their greatest rivals, the Specters, after which would follow the final Western circuit.
Either the home club had weakened, or the Hornets improved noticeably since their last encounter. The Blue Stockings had won every game, to be sure, but they had won them only by the hardest kind of work; and on two occasions the phenomenal pitching of Locke, put into the box for two and four innings respectively, was all that saved the day.
To the fans it seemed a certainty that the young southpaw would start off on the mound to-day, and a murmur of surprise arose when the umpire announced “Pink” Dillon’s name.
Dillon was, at times, a brilliant pitcher, but he had been on the sick list for some weeks; and the manager’s mistaken judgment was proved by the fact that he lasted for just two innings, during the last of which the Hornets succeeded in pounding out three runs.
In spite of vociferous yells for Locke on the part of the bleacherites, Carson sent Grist into the box. He lasted until the end of the seventh. Then, owing in part, perhaps, to the carping criticism from a group of leather-lunged fans, to whom nobody but Lefty Locke looked good, he made a sudden and pyrotechnic ascension which let in several more tallies.
Lefty was hurried into the gap with the score eight to three against the home team, and, though the portsider kept the Hornets from further scoring, the Blue Stockings were able to get only two more runners across the rubber. Therefore the game was lost by a tally of eight to five.
The tramp and thunder of departing thousands had been going on for several minutes, yet Miss Collier still sat in a box, her eyes fixed on the throng of white-clad players just disappearing through the fence on the farther side of the field. All afternoon the young southpaw had not so much as glanced in her direction, yet to-night he was leaving the city, to be gone for several weeks. It seemed as if he might at least have said good-by.
“I wouldn’t take it so hard if I were you,” smiled Mr. Collier, turning away from the friend with whom he had been chatting. “We can afford to lose this game, you know. The boys will make it up when they meet the Specters.”
The girl arose leisurely and turned her back on the field.
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” she said quietly. She paused for a second, her slim, gloved hands straightening her hat. “Doesn’t it seem a little odd to you, Dad, that Mr. Locke pitches so few games?”
“Few!” repeated the magnate in amazement. “Why, he’s been in the box twice this week, and twice last!”
Miss Collier shrugged her shoulders gracefully. “Precisely,” she returned calmly. “He’s been in the box for anywhere from two to four innings. Three times out of those four he won games some other pitcher tried to lose. He pitched a full game the day before I got home. Since then he’s been doing the most thankless sort of relief work. You see my point?”
Mr. Collier’s jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be hanged!” he exclaimed. “You certainly put one over on me that time, Virginia—or was it Locke who put you wise?”
“Certainly not,” the girl retorted emphatically. “He isn’t that sort at all.”
“Hum! No, of course not. I’m very glad you mentioned this, my dear. Such a thing is neither fair to the boy nor good judgment. I’ll see Carson before he leaves to-night, and tell him a little something.”