Kitabı oku: «Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager», sayfa 4
CHAPTER IX
TORTURING DOUBT
To a degree, Locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been a sheer waste of time. Working against batters who were dangerous, his artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would hold them in check. He had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted to his natural form.
But what would that do to his shoulder? Could he pitch like that and go the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? Should he attempt it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last heart-breaking game in the Big League.
Involuntarily, as he left the mound, he looked around for Weegman, who had disappeared. It gave Lefty some satisfaction to feel that, for the time being, at least, he had wiped the mocking grin from the schemer’s face.
Cap’n Wiley jogged down from third, an expression of injured reproof puckering his countenance. “I am pained to the apple core,” he said. “My simple, trusting nature has received a severe shock. Just when I thought we had you meandering away from here, Lefty, you turned right round and came back. If you handed us that one lone tally to chirk us along, let me reassure you that you made the mistake of your young life; I am going to ascend the hillock and do some volleying, which makes it extensively probable that the run we have garnered will be sufficient to settle the game.”
“Don’t be so unfeeling!” responded Locke. “Give us Mysterious Jones.”
“Oh, perchance you may be able to get on the sacks with me pushing ’em over; but if Jones unlimbered his artillery on you, he’d mow you down as fast as you toddled up to the pentagon. You see, I wish the assemblage to witness some slight semblance of a game.”
In action upon the slab, Wiley aroused still further merriment. His wind-up before delivering the ball was most bewildering. His writhing, squirming twists would have made a circus contortionist gasp. First he seemed to tie himself into knots, pressing the ball into the pit of his stomach like a person in excruciating anguish. On the swing back, he turned completely away from the batter, facing second base for a moment, at the same time poising himself on his right foot and pointing his left foot toward the zenith. Then he came forward and around, as if he would put the sphere over with the speed of a cannon ball–and handed up a little, slow bender.
But he need not have troubled himself to put a curve on that first one, for Fred Hallett, leading off for the Grays, stood quite still and stared like a person hypnotized. The ball floated over, and the umpire called a strike, which led Hallett to shake himself and join in the laughter of the crowd.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” spluttered Wiley. “Was my speed too much for you? Couldn’t you see it when it came across? Shall I pitch you a slow one?”
Hallett shook his head, unable to reply.
“Oh, vurry, vurry well,” said the Marine Marvel. “As you choose. I don’t want to be too hard on you.” Then, after going through with a startling variation of the former convulsions, he did pitch a ball that was so speedy that the batsman swung too slowly. And, a few minutes later, completing the performance to his own satisfaction, he struck Hallett out with a neat little drop. “I preen myself,” said he, “that I’m still there with the huckleberries. As a pitcher of class, I’ve got Matty and a few others backed up against the ropes. Bring on your next victim.”
Charlie Watson found the burlesque so amusing that he laughed all the way from the bench to the plate. The eccentric pitcher looked at him sympathetically.
“When you get through shedding tears,” he said, “I’ll pitch to you. I hate to see a strong man weep.”
Then, without the slightest warning, using no wind-up whatever, he snapped one straight over, catching Watson unprepared. That sobered Watson down considerably.
“I’m glad to see you feeling better,” declared the manager of the Wind Jammers. “Now that you’re quite prepared, I’ll give you something easy.”
The slow one that he tossed up seemed to hang in the air with the stitches showing. Watson hit it and popped a little fly into Wiley’s hands, the latter not being compelled to move out of his tracks. He removed his cap and bowed his thanks.
Doc Tremain walked out seriously enough, apparently not at all amused by the horseplay that was taking place. With his hands on his hips, Wiley stared hard at Tremain.
“Here’s a jolly soul!” cried the pitcher. “He’s simply laughing himself sick. I love to see a man enjoy himself so diabolically.”
“Oh, play ball!” the doctor retorted tartly. “This crowd isn’t here to see monkeyshines.”
“Then they won’t look at you, my happy friend. And that’s a dart of subtle repartee.”
Wiley’s remarkable wind-up and delivery did not seem to bother Tremain, who viciously smashed the first ball pitched to him. It was a savage line drive slightly to the left of the slabman, but the latter shot out his gloved hand with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed the whistling sphere. Having made the catch, the Marine Marvel tossed the ball carelessly to the ground and sauntered toward the bench with an air of bored lassitude. There was a ripple of applause.
“You got off easy that time, cap’n,” said Locke, coming out. “When are you going to let us have a crack at Jones?”
“A crack at him!” retorted Wiley. “Don’t make me titter, Lefty! Your assemblage of would-bes never could get anything remotely related to a crack off Jones. However, when ongwee begins to creep over me I’ll let him go in and polish you off.”
“Colonel” Rickey, leading off for the Wind Jammers in the second, hoisted an infield fly, and expressed his annoyance in a choice Southern drawl as he went back to the bench.
Peter Plum, the fat right fielder, followed, poling out an infield drive which, to the amazement of the crowd, he nearly turned into a safety by the most surprising dash to first. Impossible though it seemed, the chunky, short-legged fellow could run like a deer, and when he was cut down by little more than a yard at the hassock he vehemently protested that it was robbery.
Locke was taking it easy now; he almost seemed to invite a situation that would again put his arm to the test. There was a queer feeling in his shoulder, a feeling he did not like, and he wondered if he could “tighten” in repeated pinches, as he had so frequently done when facing the best batters in the business. But, though he grooved one to Schaeffer, the catcher boosted an easy fly to Watson in left field.
Wiley went through the second inning unharmed, although, with two down, Colby landed on the horsehide for two sacks. Coming next, Gates bit at a slow one and lifted a foul to the third baseman.
“Now give me my faithful bludgeon,” cried the Marine Marvel, making for the bats. “Watch me start something! I’m going to lacerate the feelings of this man Lefty. I hate to do it, but I hear the clarion call of duty.”
Locke decided to strike Wiley out. Wiley picked out a smoking shoot, and banged it on a line for one sack.
“Nice tidy little bingle, wasn’t it, mate?” he cried. “I fancied mayhap Dame Rumor had slandered you, but alas! I fear me you are easy for a real batter with an eye.”
Nuccio was up again, and he also hit safely, Wiley going to third on the drive. Locke’s teeth clicked together. Was it possible that real batters could find him with such ease? If so, the Big League would see him no more; he would not return to it. If so, his days as a pitcher were surely ended. For a moment Bailey Weegman’s grinning face again rose vaguely before him.
“I must know!” he muttered. “I must settle these infernal doubts that are torturing me.”
CHAPTER X
THE ONLY DOOR
Luther Bemis blundered. He had been given the signal to let Nuccio steal, but he hit at the ball and raised a foul to Colby, who stepped back upon first and completed a double play unassisted, the Italian having made a break for second. Nuccio was disgusted, and Cap’n Wiley made a few remarks to Bemis that caused the lengthy center fielder to retire to the bench in confusion.
“There has been a sudden addition to the bone crop,” concluded the vexed manager of the Wind Jammers. “Beamy, in order to avoid getting your dates mixed, you should carry a telescope and take an occasional survey of the earth’s surface.”
“Niver mind, cap’n,” called O’Reilley. “I’ll put ye across whin I hit.”
With a twinge of apprehension, Locke sought to trick the confident Irishman into biting at a curve. And, even as he pitched, he was annoyed with himself because apprehension prevented him from bending the ball over. O’Reilley stubbornly declined to bite.
There was a sudden chorus of warning shouts as Sommers returned the ball, and the pitcher was surprised to see Cap’n Wiley running for the registry station. The foxy old veteran was actually trying to steal home on the Big League pitcher. Laughing, Lefty waited for the ball, aware that Sommers was leaping into position to nail the runner. Without undue haste, yet without wasting a second, the slabman snapped the sphere back to the eager hands of the catcher, who poked it into the sliding man’s ribs. Wiley was out by four feet, at least.
“Why didn’t you wait for O’Reilley to hit?” Locke asked.
“I wanted to spare your already tattered nerves,” was the instant answer. “You see, sympathy may be found elsewhere than in the dictionary.”
Still floundering in the bog of doubt, Lefty was far from satisfied. He had told himself that he invited the test which would give him the answer he sought, yet he realized that, face to face with it, he had felt a shrinking, a qualm, akin to actual dread; and he was angry with himself because he drew a breath of relief when the blundering and reckless playing of the Wind Jammers postponed the ordeal, leaving him still groping in the dark.
Sommers led off with a hot grounder, which O’Reilley booted. Playing the game, Locke bunted, advancing Sommers and perishing himself at first.
“Cleverly done,” admitted Cap’n Wiley, “but it will avail you naught. I shall now proceed to decorate the pill with the oil of elusion.”
A friend called to Lefty in the crowd back of first, and the pitcher walked back to exchange a few words with him. He was turning away when a hand fell on his arm, and he looked round to find Weegman there. The man’s face wore a supercilious and knowing smile.
“I didn’t mean to attend this game,” said Weegman, “but, having the time, I decided to watch part of it, as it would give me a good chance to settle a certain point definitely in my mind. What I’ve seen has been quite enough. Your arm is gone, Locke, and you know it. You’re laboring like a longshoreman against this bunch of bushers, and, working hard as you are, you couldn’t hold them only for their dub playing. I admit that you struck out some of their weakest stickers, but you were forced to the limit to do it, and it made that injured wing of yours wilt. They had you going in the last round, and threw away their chance by bonehead playing.”
“Weegman,” said Locke, “I’m tired of hearing you talk. The sound of your voice makes me weary.”
But instead of being disturbed the man chuckled. “The truth frequently is unpleasant,” he returned; “and you know I am speaking the raw truth. Now I like you, Locke; I’ve always liked you, and I hate to see you go down and out for good. That’s what it means if you don’t accept my offer. As manager of the Blue Stockings, you can hold your job this season if you don’t pitch a ball; it’ll enable you to stay in the business in a new capacity, and you’ll not be dependent on your arm. A pitcher’s arm may fail him any time. As a manager, you may last indefinitely.”
“It would be a crime if the sort of a manager you want lasted a month.”
“If you don’t come at my terms, you may kiss yourself good-by. The Feds are going to learn that your flinger is gone; be sure of that.”
“That’s a threat?”
“A warning. If their crazy offer has tempted you, put the temptation aside. That offer will be withdrawn. Every manager and magnate in the business is going to know that as a pitcher you have checked in. There’s only one door for you to return by, and I’m holding it open.” He laughed and placed his hand again ingratiatingly upon Locke’s arm.
Locke shook it off instantly. “Were I as big a rascal as you, Weegman,” he said, with limitless contempt, “I’d make a dash through that door. Thank Heaven, I’m not!”
The baffled man snapped his fingers. “You are using language you’ll regret!” he harshly declared, although he maintained his smiling demeanor to such a degree that any one a few yards distant might have fancied the conversation between the two was of the pleasantest sort.
Lefty returned to the coaching line, taking the place of Tremain; for Wiley had issued a pass to Hallett, Watson was at bat, and the doctor followed Watson. Instantly sizing up the situation, the southpaw signaled for a double steal, and both runners started with the first movement of the pitcher’s delivery. Schaeffer’s throw to third was not good, and Sommers slid under. Hallett had no trouble about reaching second.
“What are you trying to pull off here?” cried the manager of the Wind Jammers. “Such behavior is most inconsiderate, or words to that effect. However it simply makes it necessary for me to inject a few more kinks into the horsehide.”
Admittedly he did hand up some peculiar curves to Watson, but his control was so poor that none of the twisters came over and like Hallett, the left fielder walked. This peopled the corners.
“Here,” said Wiley, still chipper and undisturbed, “is that jolly soul who obligingly batted an easy one into my fin the last time. I passed the last hitter in order to get at this kind party again.”
Tremain let one pitch go by, but the next one pleased him, and he cracked the ball on the nose. It was a two-base drive, which enabled the runners already on to score. As the three raced over the plate, one after another, Wiley was seen violently wigwagging toward the bench. In response to his signal, Mysterious Jones rose promptly and prepared to warm up with the second catcher.
“I’m off to-day; perhaps I should say I’m awful,” admitted the Marine Marvel. “A spazoozum like that is sufficient to open my eyes to the humiliating fact that I’m not pitching up to class. In a few minutes, however, you’ll have an opportunity to see Mr. Jones uncork some of the real stuff.”
Wiley dallied with the next batter for the purpose of giving the dummy pitcher time to shake the kinks out of his arm. Apparently Jones did not need much time in which to get ready, for when the sailor presently dealt out another pass the relief twirler signified his willingness to assume the burden.
As Jones walked out upon the diamond, Locke looked around vainly for Weegman. It was possible, of course, that Collier’s private secretary had departed at once following his last rebuff, but somehow Lefty felt that he was still lingering and taking pains not to be seen by Mysterious Jones. Suddenly the southpaw felt a desire to bring the two men face to face, wondering what would happen. There was more than a possibility that such a meeting might present some dramatic features.
Turning back, Lefty’s eyes followed Jones. The interest and fascination he had felt at first sight of the man returned, taking hold upon him powerfully and intensely. There was something in the solemn face of the mute that spoke of shattered hopes, deep and abiding sorrow, despair, tragedy. He was like one who stood aloof even while he mingled with mankind. Knowing other mutes, many of whom seemed happy and contented, Locke could not believe that the peculiarities of Mysterious Jones were wholly due to resentment against the affliction which fate had placed upon him. Behind it all there must lay a story with perhaps more than one dark page.
CHAPTER XI
BURNING SPEED
As a pitcher, Jones displayed no needless flourishes. His style of delivery was simple but effective. Into the swing of his long arm he put the throwing force of his fine shoulder and sinewy body. Wiley had exaggerated in boasting of the mute’s speed; nevertheless that speed was something to marvel at. Norris, the clean-up man of the Grays, who preferred smokers to any other kind, was too slow in striking at the first two pitched to him by Jones. Norris looked astounded and incredulous, and the spectators gasped.
“That’s his slow one, mates!” cried Wiley. “Pretty soon, when he gets loosened up, he’ll let out a link or two and burn a few across. The daisies are growing above the only man he ever hit with the ball.”
Although Norris was not slow in swinging at the next one, the sphere took a shoot that deceived him, and the mute had disposed of the first hitter with three pitched balls.
“And the wiseacres say there are no real heavers left in the bushes!” whooped Cap’n Wiley.
Locke was thrilled. Could it be that here was a discovery, a find, a treasure like a diamond in the rough, left around underfoot amid pebbles? The Big League scouts are the grubstakers, the prospectors, the treasure hunters of baseball; ceaselessly and tirelessly they scour the country even to the remote corners and out-of-the-way regions where the game nourishes in the crude, lured on constantly by the hope of making a big find. To them the unearthing of a ball player of real ability and promise is like striking the outcroppings of a Comstock or a Kimberly; and among the cheering surface leads that they discover, a hundred peter out into worthlessness, where one develops into a property of value. More and more the scouts complain that the ground has been raked over again and again and the prizes are growing fewer and farther between; yet every now and then, where least expected, one of them will turn up something rich that has been overlooked by journeying too far afield. The fancy that Mysterious Jones might be one of these unnoticed nuggets set Locke’s pulses throbbing.
Jones had appeared to be a trifle slender in street clothes, but now Lefty could see that he was the possessor of fine muscles and whipcord sinews. There was no ounce of unnecessary flesh upon him anywhere; he was like an athlete trained to the minute and hardened for an enduring test by long and continuous work. There seemed little likelihood that protracted strain would expose a flaw. He had speed and stamina; if he possessed the required skill and brains, there was every reason to think that he might “deliver the goods.” With the advent of the silent man upon the mound, Locke’s attention became divided between doubts about himself and interest in the performance of the mute.
Hampton, who followed Norris, was quite as helpless against the dazzling speed of Jones; he could not even foul the ball. “Great smoke, Locke!” he exclaimed, pausing on his way to center field. “That man’s a terror! He seems to groove them all, but you can’t see them come over.”
“Perhaps he can’t keep it up,” said Lefty.
“I hope not. If he does, we’ve got to win on the runs we’ve made already; there’ll be no more scoring for us. It’s up to you to hold them down.”
The southpaw held them in the fourth, but he did so by working his head fully as much as his arm. By this time he had learned something of the hitting weaknesses of the Wind Jammers, and he played upon those weaknesses successfully. To his teammates and the spectators the performance was satisfactory; to him it proved only that his brain, if not his arm, was still in perfect condition.
Mysterious Jones came back with two strikeouts; in fact, he struck Sommers, the third man, out also; but the whistling, shooting sphere went through the catcher, and Sommers raced to first on the error. This brought Locke up, and he was eager to hit against Jones. He missed the first one cleanly, but fouled the next two, which was better than any one else had done. Then the silent man put something more on the ball, and Lefty failed to touch it.
“Nice little pitcher, don’t you think?” inquired Cap’n Wiley blandly.
“He behaves well, very well,” admitted the southpaw.
The Grays implored Locke to keep the enemy in hand; the crowd entreated him. This was the game they desired to win. To them it was a struggle of vital importance, and the winning or losing of it was the only question of moment. They did not dream of something a thousand times more momentous involving Lefty Locke.
Loyal to the team and its supporters, the southpaw could not take needless chances of losing, no matter how much he longed to be put upon his mettle and forced to the last notch. Therefore he continued to work his head while on the slab. Schaeffer fouled out, Jones fanned indifferently, and Nuccio popped to shortstop.
“Lucky boy!” called Wiley. “But things won’t always break so well for you. You’ll have to go your limit before the game is over.”
“I hope so,” said Lefty.
Hallett caught one of Jones’ whistlers on the end of his bat and drove it straight into the hands of the first baseman.
“Hooray!” laughed Watson. “At least that shows that he can be hit.”
“A blind man might hit one in a million if he kept his bat swinging,” scoffed Wiley. “Let’s see you do as much.”
Watson could not do as much; he fanned three times. Then Jones pitched four balls to Tremain, and the doctor placed himself in Watson’s class.
The game had become a pitchers’ battle, with one twirler cutting the batters down with burning speed and shoots, while the other held them in check through the knowledge he had swiftly acquired regarding their shortcomings with the stick. In every way the performance of Jones was the most spectacular, and in the crowd scores of persons were beginning to tell one another that the mute was the greater pitcher.
The truth was, experience in fast company had taught Lefty Locke to conserve his energies; like Mathewson, he believed that the eight players who supported him should shoulder a share of the defensive work, and it was not his practice to “put everything on the ball,” with the cushions clean. Only when pinches came did he tighten and burn them across. Nor was he in that class of pitchers who are continually getting themselves into holes by warping them wide to lure batters into reaching; for he had found that a twirler who followed such a method would be forced to go the limit by cool and heady batters who made a practice of “waiting it out.” Having that prime requisite of all first-class moundmen, splendid control, he sought out an opponent’s weakest spot and kept the ball there, compelling the man to strike at the kind from which he was least likely to secure effective drives. This had led a large number of the fans who fancied themselves wise to hold fast to their often-expressed belief that the southpaw was lucky, but they were always looking for the opposition to fall on him and hammer him all over the lot.
Therefore it was not strange that the crowd, assembled to watch the game in Fernandon, should soon come to regard the mute, with his blinding speed and jagged shoots, as the superior slabman. Apparently without striving for effect, Jones was a spectacular performer; mechanical skill and superabundant energy were his to the limit. But Locke knew that something more was needed for a man to make good in the Big League. Nevertheless, with such a foundation to build upon, unless the fellow should be flawed by some overshadowing natural weakness that made him impossible, coaching, training, and experience were the rungs of the ladder by which he might mount close to the top.
Loyal to the core, Lefty was thinking of the pitching staff of the Blue Stockings, weakened by deflections to the Federals, possibly by his own inability to return. For a little time, even Weegman was forgotten. Anyway, the southpaw had not yet come to regard it as a settled thing that Bailey Weegman would be permitted to undermine and destroy the great organization, if such was his culpable design; in some manner the scoundrel would be blocked and baffled.
The sixth inning saw no break in the run of the game between the Grays and the Wind Jammers. Bemis, O’Reilley, and Schepps all hit Locke, but none hit safely, while Jones slaughtered three of the locals by the strike-out method. As Wiley had stated was the silent man’s custom, he seemed to be seeking revenge on the world for giving him a raw deal.
When Oleson began the seventh with a weak grounder and “got a life” through an error, Lefty actually felt a throb of satisfaction, for it seemed that the test might be forced upon him at last. But the Swede attempted to steal on the first pitch to Rickey, and Sommers threw him out. Rickey then lifted a high fly just back of first base, and Colby put him out of his misery. Plum batted an easy one to second.
“There’s only one thing for me to do,” thought Locke. “I’ve got to work the strike-out stuff in the next two innings, just as if men were on bases, and see if I’ve got it. The game will be over if I wait any longer for a real pinch.”
When Jones had polished off Gates and Sommers, Locke stepped out to face the mute the second time. Having watched the man and analyzed his performance, the southpaw felt that he should be able to obtain a hit. “If I can’t lay the club against that ball,” he told himself, “then that fellow’s putting something on it beside speed and curves; he’s using brains also.”
Cap’n Wiley jumped up from the bench and did a sailor’s hornpipe. “This is the life!” he cried. “The real thing against the real thing! Take soundings, Lefty; you’re running on shoals. You’ll be high and dry in a minute.”
Straight and silent, Jones stood and looked at the Big League player, both hands holding the ball hidden before him. Wiley ceased his dancing and shouting and a hush settled on the crowd. To Locke it seemed that the eyes of the voiceless pitcher were plumbing the depths of his mind and searching out his hidden thoughts; there came to Lefty a ridiculous fancy that by some telepathic method the man on the slab could fathom his purposes and so make ready to defeat them. An uncanny feeling crept upon him, and he was annoyed. Jones pitched, and the batsman missed a marvelous drop, which he had not been expecting.
“Perhaps I’ll have to revise my theory about him not using brains,” was the southpaw’s mental admission.
The next two pitches were both a trifle wide, and Lefty declined to bite at either. For the first time, as if he knew that here was a test, Jones appeared to be trying to “work” the batter. Locke fouled the following one.
“That’s all there is to it,” declared Wiley, “and I’m excruciatingly surprised that there should be even that much. Go ’way back, Mr. Locke!”
Again Jones surveyed Lefty with his piercing eyes, and for the third time he pitched a shoot that was not quite across. As if he had known it would not be over, the batsman made not even the slightest move to swing.
“Some guessing match!” confessed the Marine Marvel. “Now, however, let me give you my plighted word of dishonor that you’re going to behold a specimen of the superfluous speed Jonesy keeps on tap for special occasions. Hold your breath and see if you can see it go by.”
The ball did not go by; Lefty hit it fairly and sent a safety humming to right.
