CHAPTER XLV

LEFTY’S TRIUMPH

Again the crowd cheered and yelled like lunatics, shouting Locke’s name over and over as he walked toward the bench. His teammates surrounded him, patting him on the back and uttering brief, friendly words of praise. He was one of them now. He had won his spurs and fairly earned the right to their esteem.

But the game was not over. Russell fanned the next batter with swift precision, and the Blue Stockings took the field. Their supporters in the stands urged the southpaw, in frantic terms, to “Hold ’em!”

The Hornets’ sympathizers were equally vehement in their entreaties to the home team to “Get in there and smash it out!” The uproar was deafening. It subsided only when Ed Nolan walked up and squared himself at the plate. There were a few last shouts of encouragement, and then silence, tense and absolute, fell upon the vast inclosure.

Lefty knew that the Hornets’ fielder was a man to fear. He could hit almost any kind of ball with ease. In fact, the southpaw, in spite of his having played so many practice games against the fellow, had never yet fathomed his hitting weakness. He wished that almost any other man in the batting list could have been the one to face him now, but there was no use pining for the impossible, so he proceeded to send over a tempting feeler.

But Nolan declined to be fooled. He disdained the first two balls, and the crowd began to shout for a free pass.

Then Lefty whipped over a good one, following it with a whizzer with a perplexing jump just before it reached the pan. But the batter was there with the goods, and, though he did not strike the horsehide quite squarely, he lashed it out between second and short.

Lewis lunged for it, and his fingers almost touched the sphere, but not quite. Nolan rounded first to the accompaniment of much joyful clamor.

And now came Fargo, the man who knew Locke’s methods better than any other on the team. The southpaw worked him with the utmost care, pitching as he had never pitched before; and then, just as he fancied he had the backstop in a hole, Buck suddenly and unexpectedly bunted, sending the ball rolling slowly toward first.

Lefty got the sphere, but secured it in bad position to throw. Without attempting to straighten up, he jerked it past Fargo, who was making the final long strides for the sack.

Grant should have caught it, for the throw was good. Perhaps he was too confident. Perhaps there was no excuse at all, for even Big League players make errors of that sort now and then. At all events, he dropped the ball. The spectators fairly made the stands shake with their raucous joy.

“Hit it out!” they shrieked. “Smash it on the nose! Here’s where we get two runs and the game!”

Pollock did his best, but only succeeded in sending up a high fly into short center which the fielder secured with ease. Then Johnny Burns hurried up, eager to help things along, and confident that he could do it.

Lefty felt that the man was positively itching to hit. He could read it in the fellow’s face and manner, and he determined to play upon the batter’s eagerness. A high drop across Burns’ shoulder deceived him, but did not shake his confidence. It was followed by another high ball, which was, however, an inshoot, and again the Hornet fielder missed.

“Hit it, Johnny!” pleaded the local fans. “Don’t let him fool you. Smash it out.”

“Fan him!” shrieked the Blue Stockings’ supporters wildly, their hopes beginning to rise again. “Fan him, Lefty! You’ve got to do it.”

Lefty hesitated a second, his face cool and impenetrable, the muscles of his jaw sharply defined. He felt that the batter would expect him to try a coaxer; for, with no balls called, most pitchers would feel that they could afford to waste one or two.

He glanced round, his foot on the slab. When he turned back, he pitched without the slightest preliminary swing, sending over a high, straight, speedy ball. It had been his object to catch Burns unprepared, and he succeeded. The batter struck a second too late, and the ball spanked into Nelson’s glove.

“Out!” called the umpire.

But the word was not heard because of the deafening roar which rose from the delighted visitors.

Lefty was scarcely conscious of the turmoil. It sounded faint and far away, like the beating of breakers on a rocky coast, and mingled insensibly with the words he was saying over and over to himself:

“One more! Only one more! I must get him――I’ve got to!”

He dared not risk a glance at that upper box. The moment was too tense. And yet in his mind he pictured the girl leaning breathlessly over the railing, her tiny gloved hands clasped rigidly together, her face a little pale, her violet eyes wide open and almost black with excitement. She must not be disappointed――she should not!

How Sandy Rollins missed the first ball he reached for was something he never understood. When he struck, he felt absolutely certain that he would meet it full upon the trademark. His failure brought a ludicrous expression of surprise to his face.

The Blue Stockings’ rooters yelled madly. Most of them were on their feet now, staring down into the diamond. The opposing fans, beginning to lose hope, divided their efforts between hurling caustic comments at the batter and trying to break the pitcher up.

In this latter attempt they were unsuccessful. Locke paid absolutely no attention to them. It is doubtful whether he was conscious of their presence. He was not faltering now. He was wasting no time, yet he did not hurry. He put over an erratic curve that fooled Rollins even more than had the first one. Indeed, the ball seemed actually to dodge the bat as the Hornets’ baseman slashed at it.

Another roar went up which drowned the umpire’s voice. Nolan, quivering with eagerness, held himself ready to run, working off third. Lefty drove him back.

A hush settled upon the field. It almost seemed as if each little human atom of the thousands which overflowed the wide sweep of stand and bleacher had ceased to breathe. Even the coachers were silent for the instant――and Locke pitched.

Rollins’ judgment told him that the ball would cut a corner when it broke. He was not mistaken. It came over; but, instead of crossing the outside corner, as he expected, it took such a sharp, amazing shoot over the inside that the batter missed cleanly.

“Out!” shouted the umpire, flinging up one hand.