CHAPTER XLI

THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME

Rufe Hyland, the visitors’ right fielder and one of their crack hitters, stood at the pan, calm and smiling, swinging his stick with a short, gentle motion, which seemed to denote tense muscles and a brain alert and ready to take advantage of any pitched ball that should nick the platter.

In spite of his seeming coolness, Bert Elgin had really never been more nervous in his life. He took his time, even after Fargo had given the signal, and, as he dug away the soil near the pitcher’s rubber with his copper toe, he heard his teammates coaching behind him.

He was heartened by the sound of their friendly voices; but, nevertheless, the straight, low one he sent over seemed to lack his usual cannon-ball speed. Hyland lashed it out in a manner which sent the pitcher’s heart down into his boots. For an instant he thought it a two-bagger, at least. Then, as he whirled round, he saw that Dutch Siegrist, sprinting at full speed, had scooped it right off the blades of grass.

The superb catch brought a yell of delight from the Hornets’ rooters, and seemed to brace Elgin amazingly. He took a long breath, and his nerves ceased to flutter as he surveyed the next batter. He felt a new confidence in himself in the realization that the team was behind him, ready to back him up with their wonderfully perfect organization. He lost instantly that sense of isolation he had been conscious of at first――the feeling that the entire weight and responsibility of the game lay on his shoulders. The boys were there, ready to cover any blunder or mistake he might make; and, though this did not bring about laxness in his pitching, it was infinitely consoling.

Again he took the signal from the big backstop, but this time the ball he put over had burning speed, and a little jump to it which completely fooled Pink Dalton, the Blue Stockings’ second baseman.

It was followed by an incurve that cut the corner of the plate.

Dalton fouled back of the pan.

Then came a couple of teasers which the batter ignored; and finally, with two and two, the Blue Stockings’ man hoisted a high fly into left field, which was easily caught by the guardian of that pasture.

The roaring approval of the crowd caused the blood to tingle in Elgin’s veins. Before the end of the game he meant to have them shouting his name as loudly as they had yelled for Russell, or Pop Jennings, or any other of the old favorites, on the opening day. It wasn’t such a hard matter, after all, to pitch in a Big League contest.

By carefully following Fargo’s signals, he struck out Brock, the visitors’ center fielder, and then walked toward the bench with a little, unconscious swagger. One or two of his fellow players told him how well he’d done. Brennan, even, added his approval.

Elgin fancied that he had made a very good start, indeed, and that there wasn’t a doubt of his form improving as the game progressed. He was quite satisfied with his cleverness in letting only three batters oppose him. He gave no thought to how much the man behind the pan had contributed to this result. Neither he nor any one else had the least conception of the fight which had gone on in Buck Fargo’s mind between loyalty to his team and the contempt and hatred he felt for the pitcher his brains and experience were helping so greatly.

The caustic comment and jeering criticism which had greeted Elgin’s appearance were as nothing to the disparaging chorus that arose when Lefty walked out into the diamond. Baseball fans are extremely partizan, and the supporters of the Hornets outnumbered those of their opponents ten to one.

The southpaw could not help being a bit affected by the unflattering remarks hurled at him from the bleachers and grandstand, even though he knew how little such things counted and how fickle the average rooter is. He felt, too, and rather painfully, the lack of encouragement from his own team. He knew he was not one of them. They had shown him that only too plainly. With the exception of one or two, they had made him perfectly aware of the fact that they regarded him as a man who had yet to win his spurs, and on whom the honor of opening the first game with the Hornets had devolved more by accident, or through a whim of their manager, than from any real worth or proven merit. Their silence as he toed the slab was in vivid contrast to the behavior of their opponents in the first half of the inning.

It made him set his teeth and resolve desperately to make good; to show them that he had something in him; to vindicate Jack Kennedy’s judgment; incidentally, to prove to the latter how grateful he was for having been given this chance.

For a second he waited for his catcher’s signal, but none came. Dirk Nelson seemed to be occupied in settling down behind the pan and making sure that his mitt was in place. Lefty wondered whether the backstop’s well-known chumminess with Pete Grist, the popular Blue Stockings’ twirler, had anything to do with this unusual state of absent-mindedness. Grist had shown unmistakable signs of ill humor on discovering that he was not to start on the slab to-day.

There was but a momentary hesitation. Bill Hagin was at bat, and Lefty had played too many practice games against the capable outfielder not to know pretty well his strong and weak points. Unfortunately the latter were few. The southpaw was satisfied, however, when he finally got Nelson’s belated signal. A slow floater was what he handed up for a starter.

Hagin, doting on speed, could not restrain himself, and struck too soon. Lefty then tried a curve. The batter swung at it, making connections and bumping a slow grounder towards short.

Eddie Lewis made the mistake of waiting for the ball, and was then forced to throw hastily in order to get it across the diamond in time. That hasty throw was wide, and Spider Grant had to leap off the cushion. Hagin was safe because of bad judgment and an error.

The crowd cheered, and urged Dutch Siegrist to carry on the good work.

The first baseman of the Hornets took no chances. In spite of Lefty’s efforts to prevent it, he managed to lay down a bunt which corkscrewed along the base line, ever threatening to roll foul, but in the end coming to rest a couple of inches on the right side. Locke snatched it up and lined it to Grant, but the delay had made it possible for the German to reach the sack in safety.

Jim Brennan smiled significantly. He had watched Locke closely and expectantly, waiting for signs of the yellow streak to show. With two men on bases and none out, it looked very much as if the southpaw’s first inning would be his last.

“We’ve got him going,” the manager of the Hornets muttered jubilantly. “Ken’ll have to yank him sudden. I reckon he’ll have more faith in my judgment after this.”

When Nolan, his left fielder, presently sent a foul back of first and was put out by Grant’s wonderful sprinting and equally amazing catch, Brennan’s conviction was in no wise altered. This was pure luck, helped on by the skill of the first baseman, and reflected no credit on Locke.

Buck Fargo was advancing to the plate, too, which boded well for the Hornets.

“You know what to do, Buck,” the manager said, in a low tone, as the backstop passed him. “We’ve got this green portsider on the run already.”

It was a curious situation. The two men facing each other were friends. Fargo’s sympathy for the young pitcher was such that he wanted him to make good almost more than he desired a victory for his own team. The big backstop could help very materially, if he wished, without any risk to himself; and he realized that this was a crucial moment in the inning when a hit might mean a run, while an out would go far toward killing the Hornet’s chances for scoring.

To his honor, he walked to the pan with the fixed determination to forget that Lefty was pitching, and to give his manager the very best that was in him.

And now Locke realized that the thing which had hitherto been in his favor was going to work the other way. If he knew intimately the likes and dislikes, the batting strength and weakness of each member of the opposing team, the man who faced him now was in a position to know quite as much, or more, about himself.

Lefty’s face was a shade less brown as he toed the rubber, but his nerves were quite steady, his courage unabated. He would do his best; no man could do more.

The cheering and comments in the stands had ceased. Even the murmur of voices died away as the spectators bent forward in breathless suspense.

The first one was not over, and Fargo refused to go after it.

“Ba-a-ll!” drawled the umpire.

“He’ll put it over now,” thought Fargo, swinging his stick gently. He had ceased to think of Lefty as his friend; he was now simply the pitcher of the rival team.

He was mistaken, however. Though it seemed to be Locke’s intention to cut the pan, Fargo saw the ball break for a curve which would carry it just outside, and again he refrained from swinging.

“Two-oo!” said the umpire.

In the silence of the breathless crowd some one was heard to say:

“He’s afraid of him. He don’t dare let him hit it.”

These words did not reach the southpaw’s ears. The latter, however, had no intention of pitching himself into a hole if he could help it. He bent over a sizzler.

Fargo swung and missed, although he almost fancied that he felt the bat lightly touch the whistling ball. A murmur rose from the Blue Stockings’ rooters.

A moment later, Lefty shot the ball back with a quick return, and, though he was not taken off his guard, the batter missed again.

The murmur rose.

Then Locke tried that slow, lingering ball which he could so cleverly deliver after going through movements which seemed to promise great speed.

Unfortunately Fargo had seen him try that same trick more than once, and he refused to be fooled. Watching the horsehide as it came up and dropped toward the ground, he let it settle into the catcher’s hands without having moved his stick.

The Hornets’ fans had a chance to yell, but their uproar was swiftly cut short. Now was the moment of greatest suspense. The next ball delivered would be decisive.

After what seemed an eternity, but which was, in reality, the briefest sort of pause, the southpaw pitched.

Fargo met the sphere on the trademark and sent it humming out on a line with the speed of a bullet.