By dint of playing for time, and putting over a couple of wide ones, Pete Grist had prevented Forbes, the Specter left fielder, from adding to the damage already done. Knowing that he would be taken out, he had the wit to seize every possible chance to delay the game, and thus run no risk of making any further errors.
He supposed, however, that his successor would be Orth, whom he had seen start to warm up a few minutes before. When Lefty appeared on the field amid the delighted roars of the spectators, Grist’s face turned a brick red, and for a second or two he looked as if he could have committed murder with the greatest possible enjoyment.
It is provoking enough, in all conscience, for a pitcher to have to leave the box on account of bad control. But to be superseded by a youngster whose Big League experience is limited to a few months, yet who, in that time, had set the fans yelling for him as if he were a Mathewson, is sufficiently humiliating to stir the mildest man to wrath.
Mildness was not Pete Grist’s long suit, nor was this the first time he had writhed in the grip of the green-eyed monster. As Locke reached him his face was like a thundercloud. He fairly flung the ball at the southpaw, and, without a word, turned on his heel and strode toward the bench.
Lefty stood for an instant staring after him, a touch of sympathy in his eyes. He knew from experience precisely how it felt to be benched under such circumstances.
“Tough luck,” he murmured, as he mounted the hill. “I don’t blame him for being sore. I would myself.”
Directly, however, he had thrust the disgruntled pitcher from his mind, and was bringing all his skill and cunning to bear on the task before him. He knew the importance of winning the game to-day. It was one of those close seasons, with three teams fighting like bulldogs for first place.
At first the struggle had seemed to lie between the Blue Stockings and their old-time rivals, the Hornets. Well into July these two organizations had it nip and tuck, and the Blue Stockings had no sooner forged definitely ahead than they were menaced by the speedy Specters, who were playing this year as they had never played before. Back and forth they zigzagged, until at length the Blue Stockings, thanks in no small measure to the astonishing work of their young southpaw wonder, managed to accumulate a scanty lead, and hold it by the skin of their teeth.
If they could only manage to pull through this series in good shape, they could afford to lose a game or two of the return series, and still enter on the last Western circuit with a slight advantage.
Lefty lined a few to Dirk Nelson, and, having found the plate, nodded to the batter, who stepped up to the rubber again. The Blue Stockings’ owner had been right in saying that Locke had taken the measure of the opposing team. The ability to size up swiftly and accurately a batter’s strong and weak points, likes and dislikes, was something which had contributed much to the southpaw’s extraordinary success. He believed he knew the sort of ball Forbes could not hit safely; and promptly, though without any appearance of haste, he proceeded to hand it up.
To the delight of the fans, the batter missed. The second one he fouled. Then he let two go by. Finally he missed again, having been fooled at last by a sudden change of pace and a slow drop when he expected speed. As he sauntered toward the bench in elaborate affectation of indifference, the spectators chortled gleefully, while a ripple of returning confidence swept over the Blue Stocking players.
“Never mind that!” cried Murray, the visitors’ captain, from the coaching line. “Get off that hassock, Rowdy. On your toes! Now, Jim, let’s have one of the old-timers mother used to make.”
Donovan, the famous Specter twirler, was also a clever stickman. During the past season his hitting average had been little short of the three-hundred mark, and he was especially noted for helping along a streak of luck. He walked up to the plate, bat swinging nonchalantly, on his face that confident grin which annoys many a pitcher who pretends that he is not disturbed.
Lefty eyed him coolly for an instant; then his eyes dropped to where Nelson crouched, giving a signal. He shook his head. With some slight reluctance, the catcher responded by calling for another ball, and shifted his position the barest trifle. A second later the sphere came whistling, with a slight inswerve, across the batter’s shoulders. Forbes’ bat found nothing but empty air.
“Str-r-rike!” called the umpire, flinging up his right hand.
“Look out for those, Jim,” called Murray. “Make ’em be good!”
Donovan let the next one pass. It was a ball. Then followed a slow one, delivered with a swing and snap that fooled the batter into striking before the lingering, tantalizing horsehide was within reach.
Donovan frowned and regained his balance, annoyed slightly by the burst of raucous delight from the stands. When he faced the pitcher again the grin still curved his lips, but it had grown somewhat thin.
Silence settled over the field. Ten thousand straining eyes were turned anxiously on the quiet figure in the pitcher’s box.
Lefty’s hand drew back slowly, cuddling the ball for a second as he poised himself on one foot. Then, like a flash, his long left arm swung flail like through the air.
The ball was high—almost too high, it seemed at first. But suddenly it flashed downward past Donovan’s shoulders, and across his breast. Too late the batter saw it drop, and tried weakly to hit. There was a swish, a plunk, and—
“Batter’s out!” bawled the umpire.