Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager Part 5

"I'll do it," he decided; "I'll go the limit. If I can't do that now, after the rest I've had and the doctoring my arm has received, there's not one chance in a thousand that I'll ever be able to pitch in fast company again."

CHAPTER VII

THE TEST

Nearly all Fernandon turned out to the game. Many residents of the town, as well as a large number of the visitors from the North, came in carriages and automobiles. The covered reserved seats were filled, and, s.h.i.+elding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, an eager crowd packed the bleachers. On the sandy gra.s.s ground back of third base a swarm of chattering, grinning colored people sat and sprawled. Holding themselves proudly aloof from the negroes, a group of lanky, sallow "poor whites," few of whom could read or write, were displaying their ignorance by their remarks about the game and the players. The mayor of the town had consented to act as umpire. At four o'clock he called "play."

"Now we're off!" sang Cap'n Wiley, waltzing gayly forth to the coaching position near third. "Here's where we hoist anchor and get away with a fair wind."

Nuccio, the olive-skinned Italian third baseman, selected his bat and trotted to the pan, grinning at Locke.

"Oh, you Lefty!" said he. "We gotta your number."

"Put your marlinespike against the pill and crack the coating on it,"

urged Wiley.

George Sommers, catcher for the Grays, adjusted his mask, crouched, signaled. Locke whipped one over the inside corner, and Nuccio fouled.

"Nicked it!" cried the Marine Marvel. "Now bust it on the figurehead and make for the first mooring. Show our highly steamed friend Lefty that he's got to pitch to-day if he don't want the wind taken out of his sails."

The southpaw tried to lead Nuccio into reaching, but the batter caught himself in his swing. "Puta the ball over, Left," he pleaded. "Don't givea me the walk."

The pitcher smiled and handed up a hopper. The batter fouled again, lifting the ball on to the top of the covered seats.

"I don't think you need worry about walking," said Sommers, returning after having made a vain start in pursuit of the sphere. "You're in a hole already."

Nuccio smiled. "Wait," he advised. "I spoil the gooda ones."

Another ball followed, then Lefty warped one across the comer. Nuccio drove it into right for a pretty single, bringing shouts of approval from the bench of the Wind Jammers. Wiley addressed Locke.

"Really," he said, "I fear me much that you undervalue the batting capacity of my players. One and all, individually and collectively, they are there with the healthy bingle. Please, I beg of you, don't let them pound you off the slab in the first inning, for that would puncture a hard-earned reputation and bring tears of regret to my tender eyes.

For fear that you may be careless or disdainful, I warn you that this next man can't touch anything down around his knees; his arms being attached to his shoulders at such a dim and distant alt.i.tude, he finds it difficult to reach down so far, even with the longest bat."

Luther Bemis, the player referred to, was the marvelously tall and lanky center fielder of the Wind Jammers. He had a queer halting walk, like a person on stilts, and his appearance was so ludicrous that the spectators t.i.ttered and laughed outright. Their amus.e.m.e.nt did not disturb him, for he grinned cheerfully as he squared away, waving his long bat.

"Don't you pay no 'tention to the cap 'n, Lefty," he drawled, in a nasal voice. "I can hit um acrost the knees jest as well as anywhere else. He's tryin' to fool ye."

"Let's see about that," said Locke, putting one over low and close on the inside.

Bemis smashed out a hot grounder and went galloping to first with tremendous, ground-covering strides. For all of his awkward walk and the fact that he ran like a frightened giraffe, it would have required an excellent sprinter to beat him from the plate to the initial sack.

Norris, the shortstop, got his hand on the ball and stopped it, but it twisted out of his fingers. It was an error on a hard chance, for by the time he secured the sphere there was no prospect of getting either runner.

"Now that's what I call misfortune when regarded from one angle, and mighty lucky if viewed from another," said Wiley. "Beamy carries a rabbit's foot; that's why he's second on our batting disorder. He does things like that when they're least expected the most."

Schaeffer was coaching at first. "Is it Lefty Locke against us pitching?" he cried. "And such an easiness! Took a lead, efrybody, and move along when the Irisher hits."

"I hate to do ut," protested Barney O'Reilley, shaking his red head as he walked into position. "It's a pain it gives me, Lefty, but I have to earn me salary. No bad feelings, ould man. You understand."

"Just one moment," called Wiley, holding up his hand. "Sympathy impels me. I have a tender heart. Lefty, I feel that I must warn you again. This descendant of the Irish n.o.bility can hit anything that sails over the platter. If it were not a distressing fact that Schepps, who follows, is even a more royal batter, I would advise you to walk O'Reilley. As it is, I am in despair."

The crowd was not pleased. It began to beg Locke to fan O'Reilley, and when the Irishman missed the first shoot the pleadings increased.

"Barney is sympathetic also," cried Cap'n Wiley; "but he'd better not let his sympathy carry him amain, whatever that is. I shall fine him if he doesn't hit the ball."

Locke had begun to let himself out in earnest, for the situation was threatening. It would not be wise needlessly to permit the Wind Jammers to get the jump. They were a confident, aggressive team, and would fight to the last gasp to hold an advantage. The southpaw realized that it would be necessary to do some really high-grade twirling to prevent them from grabbing that advantage in short order.

Tug Schepps, a tough-looking, hard-faced person, was swinging two bats and chewing tobacco as he waited to take his turn. He was a product of the sand lots.

"Land on it, Barney, old top!" urged Tug. "Swat it on der trade-mark an' clean der sacks. Dis Lefty boy don't seem such a much."

Locke shot over a high one.

"Going up!" whooped O'Reilley, ignoring it.

"Get 'em down below the crow's nest," entreated Wiley. "You're not pitching to Bemis now."

The southpaw quickly tried a drop across the batter's shoulders, and, not expecting that the ball had so much on it, Barney let it pa.s.s.

He made a mild kick when the mayor-umpire called a strike. "It's astigmatism ye have, Mr. Mayor," he said politely.

The next one was too close, but O'Reilley fell back and hooked it past third base. Even though the left fielder had been playing in, Nuccio might possibly have scored had he not stumbled as he rounded the corner.

Wiley started to grab the fallen runner, but remembered the new rule just in time, and desisted.

"Put about!" he shouted. "Head back to the last port!"

The Italian scrambled back to the sack, spluttering. He reached it ahead of the throw from the fielder. Cap'n Wiley pretended to shed tears.

"Is it possible," he muttered, shaking his head, "that this is the great Lefty Locke? If so, it must be true that his star is on the decline. Alas and alack, life is filled with such bitter disappointments."

Whether the regret of Wiley was real or pretended, it was shared by a large part of the spectators, who were friendly to the local team; for Locke had become very well liked in Fernandon, both by the citizens of the place and the Northern visitors.

It must not be imagined that, with the corners crowded and no one down, Locke was fully at his ease. He had decided to make this game the test of his ability to "come back," and already it looked as if the first inning would give him his answer. If he could not successfully hold in check this heterogeneous collection of bush talent, it was easy to understand what would happen to him the next time he essayed to twirl for the Blue Stockings. A sickening sense of foreboding crept over him, but his lips wore a smile, and he showed no sign of being perturbed.

Schepps was at the plate, having discarded one of the bats he had been swinging. He grinned like a Ches.h.i.+re cat. "Always t'ought I could b.u.mp a real league pitcher," he said. "Put one acrost, pal, an' I'll tear der cover off."

Locke hesitated. He had been using the new delivery he had acquired to spare his shoulder. In previous games it had proved effective enough to enable him to continue four or five innings, but now--

Suddenly he whipped the ball to third, sending Nuccio diving headlong back to the sack. The crafty little Italian had been creeping off, ready to make a flying dash for the plate. He was safe by a hair.

"Not on your movie film!" cried Cap'n Wiley. "It can't be done!"

Lefty did not hear him. He was gazing past the Marine Marvel at the face of a man who, taking care to keep himself un.o.btrusively in the background, was peering at him over the shoulders of a little group of spectators--a grinning, mocking derisive face.

It was Weegman. And Weegman knew!