CHAPTER IV

ONE AGAINST SCORES

Instinctively Lefty joined the rush toward the center of disturbance. He caught a glimpse of two men struggling in close embrace, each raining blows upon the other’s face and body. He saw that one of them was Bert Elgin. The other was a big, burly fellow, dressed in a workman’s Sunday best, his face flushed, his eyes aflame with anger.

A score of other men were trying to get close enough to put in a blow or two. The place resounded with shouts of: “Kill him!” “Lynch him!” “Beat him up!” Then the whole struggling mob burst through the narrow doorway into the garish, glittering lobby.

Lefty was borne irresistibly toward the door by the crowd behind him, which seemed eager to take part in the fracas. By the time he reached it the entire audience was on its feet, making for the single exit. Hands pinioned helplessly at his sides, Locke was forced into the maelstrom of bodies. There was a squeeze, a breathless grunt, and he plunged out into the dazzling brightness.

The disturbance had ceased to be a fight and turned into a riot. The mob was made up of men in the raw, lacking in self-restraint, whose passions were roused to a white heat with very little cause. A woman’s cry of pain, the roar of fury from her escort, and the trouble was started.

As they surged against the frail, ornate booth from which tickets were dispensed, they were like a lot of madmen. Not half a dozen out of the crowd knew what the disturbance was about. Blows were rained on the heads and shoulders and backs of friends in their eagerness to get at the man in the very heart of that seething throng, and already two vigorous personal encounters had been started in different corners of the lobby on that account.

As he was flung forward against the side of the ticket booth, Lefty felt sudden anger surge up within him. He forgot that Bert Elgin was his enemy, and remembered only that he was battling against odds. And when, a moment later, by some odd trick of chance, he saw the fellow’s face, bruised, battered, blood trickling from a cut on his cheek, and caught a fleeting glance of desperate appeal from Elgin’s terror-stricken eyes, he threw caution to the winds and jumped into the fray.

The very size of the mob was in Locke’s favor, but it is doubtful whether he could have done much to help Elgin except for the unexpected giving way of the ticket booth. Slowly it began to sway under the tremendous pressure against one side. A door at the back was burst suddenly open, and the ticket agent dashed forth, clutching the cash drawer in both hands, only to trip and fall headlong, scattering money in every direction, and causing a new diversion. The crashing over of the booth was another, and for an instant Elgin was freed from the clutching hands which had held him prisoner.

Lefty darted forward, gripped the man by the shoulders, and dragged him into the angle made by the wrecked booth and one wall of the lobby. Petrified by fear, the fellow sank helplessly to the floor, and Locke had barely time to leap in front of him before the yelling crowd surged forward again.

In the second that he stood there waiting, the cub pitcher was conscious of a curious feeling which had come to him once or twice before at moments of great tension on the diamond. It was as if his brain had been wiped with a cold, wet sponge, clarifying his vision, and soothing his raw nerves to an almost uncanny degree.

He felt that there could be but one end to the encounter, and yet he was not afraid. He eyed the semicircle of angry faces calmly, coolly, appraisingly, mentally picking out the exact spot on the protruding jaw of the foremost man with which he meant to make connections an instant later. When the fellow went down before his beautiful swinging blow, Lefty felt a thrill of successful accomplishment.

A second man swiftly followed the first, but after that there was no time for picking and choosing. With a howl of rage, the crowd rushed forward in a body, bent on getting their hands on their prey and crushing him bodily. Luckily only three men could face Locke at once, and for a brief space he held them back by sheer skill and trained muscles.

With fine precision he wasted not a single effort, but broke through clumsy guarding arms, to land on some vital spot with a jolt which sent his man reeling back against the others, or else crumpled him to the floor.

In about three minutes those in the front rank were seeking to escape the deadly accuracy of his blows by dodging to one side or trying to push back through the crowd. Unfortunately for Locke, those in the rear continued to force their way forward, and thus slowly but inexorably the ring closed in.

Lefty’s arms moved faster and faster. He had long ago ceased to pick and choose――it was impossible. Several times he had leaped back before it occurred to him to wonder what had become of Elgin. That was but a fleeting thought, however. He had never counted on the fellow’s aid, so it was just as well that he was not in the way.

A number of glancing blows had struck home, one cutting his lips. At last he began to wonder how long he could keep it up, and what the end would be. He knew he might expect no mercy from the maddened crowd, all of whom supposed, by this time, that he was the one who had started the fracas. Unless the police came soon, or some other help――

Suddenly he felt a movement behind him. His first thought was that his enemies had found a way to get him at the rear; but even before he could whirl about to face them, two hands caught his shoulders, and a familiar voice sounded in his ear:

“Lemme have a whack at ’em, kid.”

It was Buck Fargo, the big catcher of the Hornets.