In the Blue Stocking pit Carson sat gritting his teeth and muttering, but he gave no orders that would tend to relieve the situation.
Nelson, standing on the plate with the ball in his hands, motioned repeatedly before Locke saw him and came forward. They met a few feet in front of the pan.
“What’s the trouble, old man?” questioned Dirk. “Are you sick?”
“Sick? No,” growled the southpaw. “Gimme the ball.”
“Wait a minute. There’s something wrong. You’re not right.”
“Nothing the matter with me. I’ll get Logie. They won’t score. Hear that infernal bunch howl! They make me sick!”
His angry eyes once more swept the tumultuous stands, where the crowd was jeering and hooting and shouting for the Blue Stockings to play ball.
“You’re paying too much attention to the crowd, or something,” said Nelson. “You’re not pitching in form.”
“Bah! I’ve got speed, haven’t I?”
“Yes, but—”
“And curves, too?”
“But your control is bad. If they score now they’ll take this game, best we can do.”
“I tell you they won’t score. Haven’t I made good in every pinch to-day? Well, stop carping, and leave it to me. Just you give me the signs, and do your part of the work; that’s all that’s necessary.”
“All right,” said the catcher, trying to seem as confident and cheerful as possible. “But don’t let Bugs reach the rubber—don’t, for the love of goodness! Keep steady now, and we’ll hold ’em yet.”
He handed Lefty the ball, and Locke walked back to the mound, watching Murray, who was capering off third in an effort to draw a throw.
“Come on, come on!” coaxed Bugs. “Heave it. You can’t get me. Heave it!”
But the pitcher refrained from throwing, and took his position on the slab. The moment he squared away to pitch Dillingham ran far up from second, ready to try to get home on any sort of a promising single.
That Locke had speed enough no one could deny, and now, to the surprise of his friends and his opponents alike, he seemed suddenly to have recovered his control. Doubtless Logie did not figure on this recovery, for he stood up to the pan, without swinging, and permitted two smokers to cut the inside corner, both being called strikes. Annoyed, he gripped his bat and waited for the next one. It proved to be one of Locke’s amazing hooks, all of which seemed due to cut the pan until they “broke.” On the break that particular ball would shoot downward and outward beyond the corner. It did so now, and Logie pounded the air.
Laughing Larry’s joyous yell sounded high and clear above the delighted shouts of the little gathering of Blue Stocking “bugs” in the watching throng.
“All right—it’s all right,” sang Dalton. “You’re fooling ’em some to-day, Lefty, my bucko.”
On the bench Billy Orth mopped his pale, perspiring face. “Great scissors!” he breathed. “I believe he’s going to pull out now. If he does, I’ll own up that I don’t know when a man has gone to the bad.”
The crowd implored Aldrich as they saw him advancing to take the place of the thoroughly disgusted Logie. The game hung by a thread, ready to drop into the laps of the Specters. Could Bush cut that thread?
“You’re there, all right, Lefty,” said Nelson, grinning through the wires of his mask. “If they wait for you to hand ’em the game, they’re fooled.”
Locke made no retort. In position to pitch, he faced Grant and looked to see if the captain gave him a signal to throw to third. But, remembering the wild heave to first, even though Murray was taking a perilous lead, Spider withheld the signal.
“Get Aldrich,” he said. “That’s all you have to do.”
Locke’s first pitch to Aldrich was high, and the batter, after starting to swing, checked himself in time to get the benefit of a called ball.
Nelson returned the sphere promptly. Lefty muffed the toss, brushed his hand across his eyes, picked the ball up, and toed the plate.
There was a sudden wild yell of warning. Murray, spurred by desperation, securing a good lead off third, had started on the jump for the plate. It was an attempt to steal home.
“Here, here!” shouted Nelson, leaping forward to take the ball.
To the dismay of the Blue Stockings, Locke turned to look toward third before throwing. Apparently he was surprised and dazed by failing to perceive Murray anywhere in the vicinity of that sack. Nor did he at that time seem to see Dillingham coming up from second as fast as he could leg it.
“The plate! Put it home!” shrieked Larry Dalton.
Locke swung back slowly, almost heavily. At that moment Bugs was flinging himself for the slide to the pan, and it was too late to stop him. That steal had tied the score.
Then Lefty did what would have been a foolish thing had he made a perfect throw. Swinging back, he pegged the ball to third, although Dillingham was within ten feet of the sack when the sphere left the pitcher’s fingers.
Leaping high, and reaching as far as he could, Jack Daly felt the ball barely graze the end of his gloved fingers. Away it went toward the left-field bleachers, and the coacher sent Dillingham on to the plate.
Joe Welch got the ball, and lined it to the pan in a hopeless attempt to stop that second run. The throw was a bit wide; and when Nelson, lunging with the ball, tagged Dillingham, the umpire spread out his open hands, palms downward.
The game was over! Locke had thrown it away at last.