CHAPTER II

A CALL-DOWN FROM THE MANAGER

The meeting had so surprised and startled Lefty that he stood there for a moment or two, ball in hand, watching Elgin join the manager and start with him toward another part of the field. He was aroused abruptly by a drawling, sarcastic voice from the plate:

“Don’t hurry yourself, bub; any time to-day will do.”

It was burly Buck Fargo, the prize backstop, who stood leaning indolently on his bat, watching Locke with mocking eyes. Lefty recognized him instantly from the many published pictures he had seen, and, berating himself inwardly for having given the fellow a chance to criticise, he swiftly toed the pitcher’s plate and sent the ball over.

Of course, it went wide. The cub catcher let out a stream of sarcastic language as he stretched himself in vain for it. A joyful snicker arose from the waiting players, and Fargo grinned aggravatingly.

“Try again, bub,” the latter invited pleasantly. “Jest a mite nearer this time, say a couple of feet. This here stick’s only regulation length, and I ain’t built like a gorilla.”

Lefty bit his lips and made no response. A small boy retrieved the ball, and the irate catcher whipped it out with decidedly unnecessary force. With gritted teeth, Locke caught it, determined that there would be no more exhibitions like that. He did not know what was the matter with him. To be sure, he had done very little pitching for a long time, but he should be able to find the plate better than this.

The second effort was not much of an improvement, and a howl of derision greeted it; for there is nothing a crowd of old baseball men enjoy more than having fun with a green cub.

The sound had a curious effect upon Lefty. Before the echoes of that jeering chorus died away he had regained his grip. He realized that they were doing their best to rattle him and cause him to make an exhibition of himself, and his jaw squared resolutely.

“I’ll fool ’em!” he muttered. “I’ll show him something.”

He caught the ball easily, his eyes fixed on Fargo’s grinning face. The big catcher stood negligently swinging his bat, and when he saw the sphere coming apparently straight toward him with speed, he dodged back precipitously, only to behold it shoot gracefully in and cut a corner of the plate.

“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “Accidents will happen. You’ve really got a curve, have you? Let’s have another one like that, if you can do it.”

Lefty could and did, and the batter sent the horsehide soaring over the fence. Obedient to instructions, he tossed aside his bat, and began trotting leisurely around the bases. Halfway between first and second he paused for a moment. “You’ll learn, bub,” he chuckled. “Some time next fall mebbe we’ll make a pitcher out of you.” Then he resumed his placid way about the diamond, while a new ball was produced, and Locke faced the second batter.

Lefty did not try any more curves, for he had suddenly realized that this was batting practice, not an exhibition of pitching. He continued to find the plate with a fair degree of accuracy, however, and one after another the three other players smashed out the sphere with joyous enthusiasm, forgetting in the delight of batting to continue their baiting of the new pitcher.

Not so Buck Fargo. He enjoyed batting quite as much, as his companions, but he also dearly loved to get a cub’s goat.

“Where’s your curves, bub?” he taunted, as he took up his bat for the second time. “Can’t you give us something interesting, or was they accidents, like I thought?”

Lefty smiled faintly. He did not intend to give Fargo the satisfaction of seeing that his words made any impression whatever. In spite of his determination, however, as he flung his arm forward, unconsciously he gave it a little twist which, made the horsehide――seemingly wide at first――cut a corner of the plate in an elusive curve. The batter hit it glancingly, and popped up a little fly which Locke smothered without moving more than a step or two from his position.

“Not bad for the bush,” chuckled Fargo, quite undisturbed. “Saved me the trouble of stretching my legs, anyhow. Come ahead, Cy, and see what you can do with the boy wonder from Squedunk.” He shot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye toward a distant part of the field, and went on in exactly the same tone, with scarcely a perceptible break: “He’s got a baby curve or two that might be fair if he could control ’em.”

Lefty was possessed by an irresistible impulse to see what he could do with the mighty pitcher, Cy Russell. He knew perfectly well that the discomfiture of one of their number might get the whole bunch down on him, but he was a very human individual, with a spice of obstinacy in his make-up. Moreover, he had failed to catch that quick glance of Fargo’s across the field, and so was quite unsuspecting.

As Russell faced him, Locke deliberately sent over a drop which fooled the batter completely. A slow floater was equally successful, and a swift, straight one, cutting the center of the pan, completed the discomfiture of the notoriously poorest hitter in the organization.

Fargo jeered out something about luck and “goose eggs,” and hustled the next man to the plate. Lefty, throwing prudence and common sense to the winds, resolved to give them what they clamored for if it was in his power. He fooled the batter into swinging at a clever bender, and then, oblivious to the sudden cessation of Fargo’s taunting voice, was just winding up to pitch again when a hand suddenly gripped his wrist, and a harsh voice sounded in his ear:

“What the deuce do you think you’re doing, Locke?”

Brought to earth, Lefty swung around, and stared for an instant, with mantling cheeks, at Jim Brennan’s angry face.

“Gimme that ball!” rasped the manager. Locke handed it over without a word. “I s’pose you think you’re mighty smart showin’ off your cute tricks,” the older man went on, in a cold, biting tone; “but that’s where you fall down――hard. This is batting practice, not a Fourth of July celebration. When I want any fireworks I’ll let you know. Get that? Well, see you remember it. Another stage play like this will be your finish. All around the park, boys, and then back to dinner.”

He turned from Lefty with an abruptness which made it impossible for the cub pitcher to say a word in his own defense, and perhaps it was just as well. To tell the truth, there was nothing to be said. Locke realized perfectly that he was totally in the wrong. A moment later, as he caught a glimpse of Buck Fargo’s grinning face, it flashed over him that the whole thing was a put-up job to get him a call. The big catcher could not have failed to see Brennan coming long before the manager got within hearing distance, yet he had kept up his taunts to the last minute in order that Locke might be taken by surprise.

“Looks like my luck had deserted me,” Lefty thought, as he fell into the line of men trotting briskly around the field just inside the high board fence. “Haven’t been here an hour before I get a call from the manager and run into Bert Elgin.”

At the thought of the latter’s presence in the squad, he frowned deeply. The call-down was swiftly forgotten, but this other annoyance was likely to be much more lasting and trouble-breeding in its results.