CHAPTER XLIV

BACK TO HIS OWN

Not once in a thousand times does such a remarkable situation arise in Big League baseball. Not once in a thousand times would it happen that the two leading teams should be scheduled to play off the last three games of the season together, and have the championship depend upon the result of the final game, which would leave one or the other of those teams in the lead by a very small percentage.

To down the Blue Stockings the Specters had to win three straight, and when they had taken the first two the entire baseball world was thrown into a great tumult of excitement, to say nothing of the home city of the Blue Stockings. That city was in a perfect panic, so that business generally was tremendously effected, and all one could hear talked anywhere he went was baseball, baseball, baseball.

The newspapers were crammed with it. They were almost savage in their denouncement of the new owner and his judgment in displacing Jack Kennedy and filling the position with a manager like Al Carson. Half of them prophesied that the Specters would take the last three straight, and cop the pennant without difficulty. A few held desperately to the tattered border of hope, begging the Blue Stockings to brace up and save the day by winning the final game.

But even as they did this, they confessed that the team’s staff of pitchers was all to the bad, with no one in condition save old Pete Grist, who had already won two games out of the double series of the final week, and was therefore unable to attempt to pitch another game.

On the other hand, the Specters had Donovan in reserve, and during the season Donovan had made a record scarcely second to any Big League pitcher. The baseball “dope” in the papers was certainly interesting enough to a genuine fan, though it must have seemed maddening to a reader who cared nothing whatever for the game.

Then came the sensation sprung by Stillman in the _Blade_. It made readers generally sit up and take notice. The other newspapers had been “scooped.” Stillman’s sense of the dramatic and his judgment regarding the psychological moment had stood him and his paper in good stead.

And when, just as the game was beginning the following day, the _Blade_ appeared with the statement that the pitcher called Stranger, whom Kennedy had brought with him, was none other than Lefty Locke himself, following with a most cleverly written explanation of the cause of Lefty’s vanishing, a complete account of his chance meeting with Kennedy, and how he had pitched in the bush league, winning the championship for the Deers, the scoop was complete.

Never in the history of the game in that city had such a crowd swarmed to the ball park. At daylight a dozen or more tired, sleepy-looking men and boys were seen in line at the bleacher gates, waiting in order that they might be the first to gain admittance and so secure favorable positions. Before eleven o’clock in the forenoon two or three hundred people were waiting at those gates, and the steady influx began when the gates were finally opened ahead of time at twelve-thirty.

Fortunately the police department was on the job, and the crowds were handled beautifully outside the grounds. On the field, at least forty policemen found themselves busy when at last the stands and bleachers overflowed, and the people began to swarm into the field back of the ropes, which had been stretched in anticipation of this very occurrence.

It was, however, a remarkably tractable crowd. Even those who had bought seats in the stand and found those seats occupied, as well as the bleachers packed――being compelled, therefore, to stand in the jam back of the ropes――were good-natured, few complaining.

This was the day――the great day! Jack Kennedy had come back, and brought with him Lefty Locke. They were waiting for Kennedy and Locke to appear, and as they waited they choked down and held back the cheer which welled from their rejoicing hearts. Presently from the clubhouse the Specters came pushing through the gathering mass of people, and burst upon the field. They were given an ovation by their admirers.

Two minutes later there was a tremendous stir all through the stands, running over the bleachers and into the group of standees. Escorted by six policemen, Kennedy and Locke were coming, with the Blue Stocking players at their heels. Other policemen fought the crowd back, and made a lane for them to pass through.

And when they debouched from that lane upon the open space of the field inside the ropes, it seemed that every human being upon the bleachers and in the stands had risen and was howling like a maniac. Such a solid roar, such a tremendous burst of sound coming from human throats, perhaps never was heard save at some gladiatorial contest in the Roman Colosseum. It beat and reverberated upon the eardrums with painful fierceness, causing more than one person to protect himself from the staggering effect of it by clapping his hands over his ears. And it continued while old Jack, bareheaded, with Lefty Locke at his side, marched from the ropes to the bench, his face pale, his eyes shining, his lips smiling.

“They’re glad to get you back, Jack,” shouted Lefty in the old man’s ear.

“You blame fool!” yelled Kennedy in return. “They’re not cheering for me. It’s you, boy――you, the man who’s going to give the Blue Stockings another pennant. Pull off your cap――pull it off! Bow! Bow!”

For a moment there was a blur over Lefty’s eyes. Through it he could dimly see the wildly tumultuous mass in the stands and on the bleachers. Mechanically he lifted his hand――his left hand――and touched his cap. And when he did so the great roar suddenly was intensified for an instant, although it had previously seemed that every person present was shouting as loudly as he could.

When Locke had reached the shelter of the covered bench, into which he dived for a few moments as one seeking to escape a deadly hail of bullets, he laughed again――queerly, incredulously.

“It can’t be for me,” he muttered. “Why, I’m――I’m only a cub yet――nothing but a busher.”

Kennedy was at his side. “You’ll show whether you’re a busher or a Big League pitcher to-day, Lefty,” he said. “If you let this reception get your goat, then your name is Mud. But if you can go out there and pitch a winning game, nobody in fast company has got it on you.”

“Give me two minutes,” said Locke, gripping himself; “give me two minutes, and I’ll show you.”

“Good boy!” said old Jack. “Come out and warm up when you get ready.”

He left Locke there, and went forth among his men, all of whom had greeted him on his return as rejoicing children might greet a beloved parent; and every one of whom had shaken the hand of Lefty Locke until Lefty’s arm seemed ready to come off. Not even Pete Grist had held back. Far from it. Old Pete was among the first to strike palms with the southpaw.

“The prodigal son!” he cried. “The prodigal son back home! Welcome to our midst, Lefty. We’re going to let you kill the fatted calf this afternoon――the Specters, you know.”

“That’s kind of you, Grist, old man,” said Locke. “I’ve brought my little butcher knife with me, and I’m going to sink it to the hilt if I can.”

As old Jack came out again from beneath the bench roof, here and there friends in the crowd shouted at him, but now he seemed deaf to all this as he went at work amid his men, directing them as of old, keeping them on the jump, filling them with inspiration and confidence.

“Hey, Jack! You’re the old man to do it!”

“Kennedy, you can deliver the goods! You did it once, and you will again.”

“Welcome to our city, Mr. Kennedy! We have missed you.”

“Oh, say, Jack, old boy, you look good to me!”

But these cries were faint compared with the renewed chorus of shouts which arose when Lefty Locke, flushed, yet steady and self-possessed, again stepped forth into view.

“Oh, you Lefty! Oh, you southpaw!”

“You’re the kiddo! You’re the Specter slayer!”

“How’s your wing, Lefty?”

“Got your batting eye with you?”

“Lefty, don’t you dare ever leave us again. You’re home with your own family now.”

Kennedy, glancing sidewise at Locke, to notice the effect of this revived demonstration, was well satisfied. Not by a flicker did the southpaw betray the emotion of satisfaction with which his heart must have been filled. He was steady as Gibraltar, and cool as polar ice.