“Pretty work,” commented a blond young man on the reporter’s bench, pushing back his rakish green hat. “There’s one thing about Locke, you can always bank on his using his head. He certainly stopped that rally in great shape.”
“Huh!” grunted the stout, bald man beside him. “I can’t see anything very wonderful in that.” He took off his glasses, and began to polish them. “It don’t take any extraordinary amount of skill to outguess Forbes, and Donovan’s never very dangerous to a pitcher who knows him.”
“Oh, come now, Eckstein,” protested the blond reporter. “Jim’s no slouch at the bat, and you know it. What have you got against Locke, anyhow?”
Eckstein replaced his glasses, and yawned. “Nothing special, Dyer,” he drawled. “I’ve been too long in the business, though, to lose my head over every infant phenom who butts into the Big League. More than half of ’em can’t keep up the pace they set themselves at first.”
“I’ll bet Locke does,” Dyer said energetically. “He’s got too much sense to use himself up the way some of the cubs do. He plays the game for all there is in it, but he plays it with his head even more than with that corking portside hooker of his. Anyhow, he’s the Blue Stockings’ one best bet this season, take it from me, Eck. Only for him they’d be in the second division, with all this monkey business of new owner and new manager right in the middle of the season. That plays hob with a team even if the old manager’s a bum, which Jack Kennedy wasn’t, by a long shot. By the way, Eck, where’s he gone?”
“Who? Kennedy?” grunted the stout man, his eyes fixed on the diamond. “Back to his farm, I reckon. He’s got one somewhere in the Middle West.—Pretty work, Jim. That’s the way to pull ’em.”
With a sudden flush at the realization that he had missed a trick, the young reporter hastily subsided, and turned his attention to the diamond. Whatever might be said of Jim Donovan’s hitting ability, no fault could be found with his skill in the box. Encouraged by the success of the last inning, he evidently realized that it was up to him to see that the Specters kept their lead of one run, and the result was an exhibition of clever pitching.
Dirk Nelson, the Blue Stocking backstop, was beguiled into popping to second. Jack Daly, unsurpassed as a third baseman, but an erratic stickman, fanned ignominiously. It looked as if Lefty would follow Daly’s example, but, with two and two called, he connected with a tricky drop, and beat the ball to first by a hair. Taking a good lead, he went down on the second ball pitched to Spider Grant. It was effort wasted, however, for the Blue Stocking first baseman presently fouled out back of third. This brought the inning to an abrupt termination, amid much rejoicing on the part of the visitors, and low grumbling from the disappointed fans.
“Well,” said Dyer defensively, “it was the tail end of the list. Anyhow, Locke got a hit.”
Eckstein chuckled. It amused the veteran newspaper man to note the violent fancies and prejudices of callow cub reporters.
“Still harping on the virtues of your miraculous southpaw?” he smiled. “I’ll ask you just one question, Dyer: If he’s such a triple-plated wonder, how did Jim Brennan, of the Hornets, come to release him outright? I never yet knew the hard-headed old vet to let any ten-thousand-dollar beauties slip through his fingers.”
“Still something to learn, Eck, strange as that may seem,” drawled a voice, before Dyer had time to answer. “Squeeze up a bit, and give a chap some room.”
A leg was thrust over the back of the seat, followed swiftly by another, and, as Eckstein’s eyes lighted upon the tanned and freckled face of the newcomer, his own face expanded in a fat smile.
“Well, well, well!” he chuckled, thrusting out a plump hand. “Back to the treadmill, eh? Have a good vacation?”
“Fine!” returned Jack Stillman, settling down between the two. “How are you, Dyer? Spent ten days up in the woods about a thousand miles away from anywhere, and then I began to get worried for fear this understudy of mine wasn’t sending the dope in right. How about it, kid? Old man have any kicks?”
“A few,” grunted the cub reporter. “He’d kick if he had the Angel Gabriel writing up games.”
“You bet he would!” laughed Stillman. “Swell lot Gabriel knows about baseball. Did I hear you running down my friend Locke?” he went on, turning to Eckstein. “Oh, I know you didn’t mean anything personal. It’s just your pessimistic mind, that can’t see anything good in a youngster. Well, let me tell you what Jim Brennan said the last time I saw him, which was about three weeks ago. ‘Jack,’ he said—it was after that last game of the series with the Blue Stockings when the Hornets got the pants licked off ’em—‘Jack,’ he said, ‘don’t send this to your paper, but if ever there was a dumb one manhandling a baseball team I’m it. I’d give two of my best men to have Lefty Locke back again. If I hadn’t been such a thick-headed dope as to let him go, the Hornets wouldn’t be where they are to-day. No, sir! They’d be at the top of the heap, with that position just about nailed. That boy’s a wonder. It makes me sick at the stomach every time I think he might be on my payroll to-day just as well as not.’ That’s going pretty strong for old sorrel-top, isn’t it?”
“A trifle,” Eckstein returned. “Well, why did he let him go? There must have been some mighty good reason.”
“There was. A rotten sneak named Elgin—a Princeton man, by the way, and a disgrace to the college—had it in for Lefty, and turned every dirty trick he could think of to put Locke in bad with Brennan. He succeeded temporarily, but he got his at last. After Brennan released him Lefty went to the Blue Stockings, and of course the first time Jim ran up against them he realized how he’d been fooled. It all came out, and he sent Elgin back into Class C with the Lobsters. I’ve heard Elgin didn’t even stay there, but is pitching back in the bush, which, if true, is good enough for him.
“By Jove! See that drop? Fooled him nicely, didn’t it?”
If Donovan was on his mettle, the opposing southpaw was in equally fine trim. In the first of the eighth only four men faced him, in spite of the fact that the heavy hitters were coming up again.
“Don’t seem to have lost any of his cunning,” smiled Stillman, as the Blue Stockings romped in from the field like colts. “Things appear to have been didding while I was gone,” he went on in a lower tone to Eckstein. “I knew Collier was dickering for the team, but I thought he’d hold off till the end of the season. And what in thunder does he mean by canning a manager like Jack Kennedy?”
The stout man shrugged his shoulders. “Collier got the idea that the team wasn’t pulling well. He seemed to think that was Kennedy’s fault.”
“Bah!” snapped Stillman. “What could Kennedy do with his hands tied? I know for a fact that when he wanted to get rid of a certain trouble-maker who was keeping the boys riled up all the time, Beach, the old owner, put his foot down, and wouldn’t let him. And what’s Al Carson ever done, anyhow, that he should supersede an experienced man like Kennedy?”
“Not much,” admitted Eckstein.
“Nor ever will. He’s one of those promising characters who’s always promising and never making good. Collier has sure picked a lemon this time, and it wouldn’t surprise me a lot if it cost him dear.
“Now, fellows, get busy, and hammer out a couple of runs. Only need one to tie, and two to win.”
All over the great stands men were rooting for runs—begging, pleading, crying for them. As Donovan stepped into his box a perfect bedlam of hoots and catcalls arose, but he was too old a bird to be affected in the least by this sort of thing. To win the game it was only necessary to hold the Blue Stockings for this inning and the next, and the clever Specter twirler looked as if shutting out his opponents was, at this precise moment, merely a matter of time with him.
In baseball, as in many other things, it never pays to discount the future; which is just as well, for otherwise a good deal of thrill and excitement would be lost. The best players are certain sometimes to make mistakes, and countless games have been won or lost by little slips, so small as to pass unnoticed by the majority of spectators.
Rufe Hyland, well known as a “waiter,” was the first man up. In spite of the frantic urgings of the excited fans to “Slug it out!” he delayed until he had three and two on him. Finally he hit between first and second. He should have been an easy victim at first, but, for some unaccountable reason, Rowdy Kenyon juggled the ball, and then threw low, dragging Murray off the sack.
For a moment or two the entire infield resounded with sulphurous comment. When Donovan faced the next batter he was still flushed with irritation. He took revenge by fanning Larry Dalton, but during that process Hyland managed to steal second, a proceeding which did not tend to increase the pitcher’s good humor.
Nevertheless, he retained a perfect grip on his feelings, and exerted his skill so well that Herman Brock whiffed fruitlessly at three balls in succession.
It happened, however, that Joe Welsh, who followed, was one of the most dependable hitters in the Blue Stocking organization. His specialty was neither home runs nor three-baggers, but his skill at placing the ball had long been a source of comfort to his fellow-players. As he faced the plate, Hyland edged off second as far as he dared, and when Joe connected with the third ball pitched Rufe shot down the line like a streak.
Due, no doubt, to Donovan’s skill, this was one of the rare occasions that Welsh slipped up. He had intended to dump the pill into the diamond by a bunt, but he succeeded only in sending it spinning erratically just inside the third-base line.
Like a flash the Specter backstop raced out, snatched at it, fumbled horribly, and then, in an effort to get Hyland, threw four feet over the third baseman’s head. By the time the left fielder, slow in backing up, had secured the sphere, and lined it back to the plate, Hyland had one foot on the rubber. And the delirious fans were shrieking themselves speechless.