CHAPTER X.A DESPERATE SITUATION.
Merry and his team had reached Minneapolis, and, having no game on hand, decided to witness the contest between the home team and St. Paul. The game proved an exciting one.
The visitors had a big crowd of fans with them, and they put up a great fight for the game. Foley, the pitcher for St. Paul, had been much harder hit than Webber, of the home team, but his support, up to the sixth inning, had been masterly, and Minneapolis had been unable to squeeze in more than one run. St. Paul had not scored.
In the first half of the sixth, with two men out and no one on the bases, Foley went to the bat and hit the ball hard to short. The short-stop fumbled and then made a swift throw to first, but Foley was a good runner and he made a mad try for the bag.
Had Foley been an “old stager” he would not have tried the trick he did; but he was a new man from some Eastern college. He flung himself headlong at the bag.
Then suddenly there was great excitement in the grand stand and on the bleachers, and loud cries were heard of:
“Foley is hurt!”
“Give him a runner!”
“Prince spiked him!”
“Shame! Shame!”
“That’s dirty ball-playing!”
Foley reached first safely, having his hand upon it when the baseman caught the ball.
“Safe!” declared the umpire.
Then the angry baseman quickly spiked Foley’s hand. It was, in truth, dirty ball-playing, and the visiting spectators had good cause to become incensed.
Foley’s right hand was the one injured, and the injury was bad enough to put him out of the game. Several players ran down to first from the St. Paul bench.
“Lynch Prince!” yelled the spectators.
“Mob him!”
“Kick him!”
“Kill him!”
It seemed that the spectators would pour onto the diamond, but several officers appeared and did their best to hold the crowd back.
Trueman, the captain of the visiting team, had reached the side of the injured player.
“How bad has he hurt you, old man?” he anxiously asked.
For answer Foley held up his bleeding hand, which Trueman examined.
“The cur!” grated Trueman, giving Prince a black look. “He ought to be shot!”
“Ah! ’twas an accident!” snapped Prince. “W’at’s ther matter wid yer?”
One of the St. Paul players made a lunge at Prince to strike him, but two others grabbed him and held him back.
“Give this man a runner, Stebson,” said Trueman to the captain of the home team.
“All right,” said Stebson, and he picked out a man, while Foley walked back to the bench, accompanied by his friends.
The spectators continued to howl, but the game went on. A doctor was handy, and he examined Foley’s injury.
“He’ll not pitch again for two weeks,” said the doctor.
“That knocks us out!” groaned Trueman bitterly. “Every other pitcher we have is used up, and those fellows knew it. What a dastardly mean way to win a game!”
“What can we do?” asked another player.
“We’ll have to put in anybody we can and let those duffers hit it out, that’s all.”
The next batter lifted an infield fly to third and was out. The time had come for the visiting team totake the field. Trueman asked the umpire to call time until he could decide who should go in to pitch.
Two pitchers were on the bench, but one of them was sick and the other had an arm that would not enable him to throw the ball up to the plate. It did seem that it was “all off.”
“Where’s that jay who threw some for the batters to hit before the game?” asked somebody. “You might try him.”
“Oh, he’d be a mark in a game!” declared a player. “He’s the greenest thing that ever happened.”
“But he did have speed.”
“And some curves.”
“You must have somebody, Trueman.”
The captain of the visiting team looked round in despair. The first person he saw, sitting not far away on the bleachers, was a raw-looking countryman in a suit of clothes that were about twenty years out of date. The countryman wore a narrow-brimmed, low-crowned, rusty derby hat, a spike-tailed coat of grandfather’s days, high-water trousers, which bagged at the knees and were a mile too loose, a pair of long-legged boots with dried mud on them, and a standing collar that was not much more than half an inch high. His bright red necktie was tied in a huge bow, and his white shirt was rather soiled. From beneath the derby hat flowed a mass of carroty hair that was straight and coarse. Hisface did not look very clean, and he wore a grin that was almost idiotic.
When Trueman’s eyes rested on this person the latter nodded and winked, then rose, sprang over the rail, and slouched awkwardly toward the bench of the visiting players.
“Gol-darn hard luck!” he said. “Can’t that feller pitch enny more?”
“Not this game.”
“Shucks! He’s a purty good man, cap’n. Who be you goin’ to put in his place?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t a pitcher left.”
“Is that so? Why, ding it! this is my chance! I’ll go in fer ye.”
“You?”
“Yep. Jest you give me a try. I’ve bin wantin’ to pitch in fast comp’ny fer a long time. I’ll jest nacherly s’prise them other chaps.”
“Did you ever pitch anywhere?”
“Did I? Cap’n, I pitched on the Mud Creek team a hull season an’ never lost a game.”
“Mud Creek! Well, this is somewhat different. I don’t believe I have any use for you.”
“Now, see here, cap’n, don’t be foolish! You say you hain’t got nary other pitcher?”
“Not one.”
“Well, you’ve got ter put in somebody.”
“Yes.”
“If you put in a man that ain’t a pitcher you’re bound to lose the game.”
“Yes.”
“I’m a pitcher. Even if I lose the game for ye, you won’t be no wuss off.”
Trueman said nothing.
“But I hain’t goin’ to do it,” persisted the jay. “If your fellers will s’port me the way they have your other pitcher, I won’t let them other chaps git a darn run!”
Trueman shook his head.
“The crowd would guy us,” he said.
“Let ’em guy an’ be hanged to ’em!” exclaimed the countryman. “Mebbe we’ll be able to take some of the guyin’ aout of ’em before we’re done. Look here, some of your fellers batted when I was tossin’ em’ up before the game. Ask them if I ain’t got some curves?”
“Curves don’t cut much ice if a man hasn’t a head and experience.”
“I’ll jest bet you a chaw of terbacker that you’ll say my head’s all right before I’ve pitched long. You don’t want to use up any of your other men pitchin’, so let me see what I can do. Come on, boss; you won’t be sorry.”
“All right,” said Trueman suddenly; “I’ll do it.”