CHAPTER XXIX

AT THE FIELD

When Manager Kennedy rode into town to take the ten-ten train for Hatfield with his players, Mr. Robert Stranger came with him. Old Jack stopped at the Central House, and found Landlord McLaughlin on the point of leaving for the station.

“Howdy, Jack,” said Peter. “I see you’ve got your new farm hand with ye.”

“’Sh!” breathed Kennedy. “I’ve induced him to go over with us to see the game, and I’m takin’ along an extra suit of mine――one I wore with the Blue Stockings, with the letters cut off.”

“You don’t mean to say――” gasped Peter.

“I don’t mean to say anything now.”

“But he ain’t owned up?”

“Not a word. It’s the queerest thing I ever bumped against――it sure is. We’ve got to catch that train, so let’s be movin’. On the way over I’ll tell you about it.”

Locke accompanied them to the station, where Kilgore was waiting with his teammates. Some eighteen or twenty Deering fans who could get away had purchased round-trip tickets, while at least fifty more were on hand to give the Deers a send-off. Kennedy bought tickets, after which he introduced Locke to the players who gathered around them.

“Shake hands with Bob Stranger, boys,” he said, calling one after another by name. “He’s a friend of mine going along with us to-day.”

The locomotive was whistling in the distance when Captain Kilgore pulled at Kennedy’s sleeve, and whispered, his back toward Locke:

“Say, Jack, who is this guy?”

The manager made a warning gesture. “Not a word,” he cautioned. “It’s a secret. He’s a southpaw pitcher, and if necessary I may use him in the game against the Bucks to-day.”

Toots Kilgore grinned. “Take it from me, it’s likely to be necessary,” he said. “It’s going to be _the_ game. They’ll fight us like blazes on their own field, and they’ve got a new man to put against us. Curley won’t last; they can steal right and left on Reddy Sullivan, and Heines’ whip is broke. You better start your new man on the hill.”

“Leave that to me,” returned old Jack reprovingly, “and keep your face closed about him. I’ll tell the boys anything they ought to know. Don’t even hint to him that you think he’s a pitcher.”

“Oh, I see!” said Kilgore. “You’re planning to spring a surprise. Maybe he’s some real gun in the game. Maybe his name ain’t Stranger at all.”

“That’s the name he goes by――now,” said the manager of the Deers, as the train roared up to the station and stopped.

The crowd cheered them as they got aboard, carrying grips, bat bags, and other paraphernalia.

“Git this game, Jack――you’ve got to git it!” cried a big man on the platform. “We need it, and we depend on you.”

Kennedy’s only reply was a nod, which brought another cheer from the crowd, who continued to make a demonstration until the train pulled out.

Old Jack saw to it that Lefty Locke was seated in the midst of the players, where he remained during the journey to Hatfield, listening with a strange sort of interest to their chatter about the game and the standing of the teams, which to them seemed quite as vital as a Big League race. At times Locke evinced more than usual interest as some chance phrase fell on his ear with a familiar ring, and for the time being the shadow in his eyes was dispelled. Although he had little to say, his manner was that of one who again found himself with his own people, and felt once more the vital throb and thrill of life which is experienced daily by the man who has found the vocation for which he is best adapted.

Kennedy missed none of this, although he took pains not to give Locke the impression that he was being watched.

“Got him going,” mused the old manager, with deep satisfaction. “He tried to duck the game, but the germ is in his blood, and he can’t keep away from it. If I need him, I’ll have him pitching before the game is finished this afternoon.”

Hatfield was a thriving, prosperous place――nearly a young city――in rather strong contrast to the quiet, almost sleepy town of Deering. It seemed presumptuous that a somnolent village like Deering should presume to the championship in a bush league represented by Hatfield, for surely the latter had the advantage, in the way of backing, population, attendance, and general resources.

From the station, Kennedy led his men to Tower’s Hotel, which gave them special rates, and furnished the most satisfactory table.

An hour’s rest followed dinner; then, as two o’clock approached, the Deers gathered up their trappings, and set forth for the park, toward which the early fans were already turning their faces.

Reaching the field, they entered a dressing room, and began stripping down to don their playing togs. Still with them, Lefty watched and listened after the manner of one to which all this seemed familiar, yet as an outsider.

“There’s an extra suit,” said Kennedy, placing his grip on a shelf, and being sure that Locke saw and heard. “Everything a man needs, down to shoes. Perhaps it won’t be used to-day, but if anyone should happen to want it, it can be found right there.”

Kilgore wondered why old Jack’s new pitcher did not get into that suit at once; but, having no small respect for the manager’s cleverness, and thinking he knew the sort of game he was playing, the captain of the Deers made no remark.

“There’s no rules here to prevent you from sitting on the bench with us, Stranger,” explained the manager, as the players were ready to leave for the field. “It will give you a chance to watch the game from close range.”

The Deers followed their manager and captain to the field. The Buccaneers had not yet appeared, so the visitors had everything to themselves.

They began practice by “fungo” batting and the catching of liners and flies, cheered only by the little group of Deering fans who had followed them and were waiting to give them encouragement. Those cheers were not the only sounds to greet them, some of the more rabid local partisans shamelessly hissing or groaning. For out in the bush baseball rivalry is almost always intense, and there is little of the fair-minded impartiality among the spectators which sometimes, in a place like New York, leads the home crowd to applaud famous players of opposing nines.

In less than ten minutes the Buccaneers came forth with a dash, Hank Bristol at their head. In appearance they justified their name, for their blue suits were almost black, and the dash of crimson upon their caps, together with their crimson stockings, gave them a somber, awesome appearance, which was heightened by the husky build of almost every man, and the mocking savageness of their faces. If ever a baseball nine was calculated to win from the awe it would inspire in the breasts of opponents, the Bucks were that organization.

With an assumption of cordiality, Hank Bristol shook hands with Jack Kennedy.

“Sorry for you, old hoss,” he grinned, “but you should have known better than to let ’em coax you into the game again.”

“Save your sympathy till I need it, Hank,” returned the manager of the Deers. “You’re old enough and wise enough to know one never can tell what’s going to happen in this game.”

“I know what’s going to happen to-day. We’re going to put another nail in your coffin. You’re a dead one, Jack, but you don’t know it. Why, you don’t worry us at all. We’re not even going to start our new pitcher against you, and I don’t believe we’ll need him. Jewett ought to find you easy picking.”

“Where’s your new man?” asked Kennedy.

“There he goes, walking by your bench now,” answered Bristol, pointing.

At this moment a ball, thrown from the field, went bounding past them into the bench of the visitors, where Lefty Locke sat. Immediately he secured it, and stepped forth to throw it to the signaling batter.

The Buccaneers’ new pitcher stopped short, and stared in astonishment at Lefty, who did not seem to observe him.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” exclaimed the surprised man, his eyes fastened on Locke. “It’s you, is it? You didn’t last so long in big company, did you?” He finished with a sneering laugh full of unspeakable satisfaction and joy.

Lefty looked him over blankly. “Speaking to me?” he asked.

“Who did you think I was speaking to?” retorted the other as he passed on, still laughing.

Frowning, Locke stared after him.

“Who’s that man?” he asked, a few seconds later, as old Jack came to the bench.

“That man?” repeated Kennedy. “He’s the Buccaneers’ new pitcher. His name is Bert Elgin.”

“Queer,” said Lefty. “He seemed to have an idea he knew me, but I’ve never seen him before.”