Jones was rather tall and almost slender, although he had a fine pair of shoulders. His arm was as long as Walter Johnson’s. His face was as grave as that of the Sphinx, and held more than a touch of the same somber sadness. His eyes were dark and keen and penetrating; with a single glance they seemed to pierce one through and through. And they were ever on the move, like little ferrets, searching, searching, searching. As he approached the hotel, he met a man going in the opposite direction, and he half paused to give the man a sharp, lance-like stare. Involuntarily the man drew aside a trifle and, walking on, turning to look back with an expression of mingled questioning and resentment. But Jones had resumed his habitual pace, his appearance that of a person who, already overburdened, had received one more disappointment.
Barney O’Reilley, the shortstop, laughed. “Sure,” said he, “it’s a bit of a jump old Jonesy hands any one he looks at fair and hard.”
Lefty Locke felt a throb of deep interest and curiosity. There was something about the deaf-mute pitcher of the Wind Jammers that aroused and fascinated him instantly. His first thought was that the man might be mentally unbalanced to a slight degree; but, though he knew not why, something caused him to reject this conviction almost before it was formed. Apparently Jones was well named “Mysterious.”
“There’s the bird, Lefty,” said Cap’n Wiley proudly. “There’s the boy who’d make ’em sit up and take notice if ever he got a show in the Big League. Yours truly, the Marine Marvel, knew what he was doing when he plucked that plum in the far-away land of lingering snows.”
A queer sound behind him, like a hissing, shuddering gasp, caused Locke to look around quickly. The sound had come from Weegman, who, face blanched, mouth agape, eyes panic-stricken, was staring at the approaching pitcher. Amazement, doubt, disbelief, fear–he betrayed all these emotions. Even while he leaned forward to get a better view over the shoulder of a man before him, he shrank back, crouching like one ready to take to his heels.
Like a person pleased by the sound of his own voice, Cap’n Wiley rattled on in laudation of his mute pitcher. No one save Locke seemed to noticeWeegman; and so wholly fascinated by the sight of Jones was the latter that he was quite oblivious to the fact that he had attracted any attention.
“Smoke!” Wiley was saying. “Why, mate, when he uses all his speed, a ball doesn’t last a minute; the calorie friction it creates passing through the air burns the cover off.”
“Ya,” supplemented Shaeffer, the catcher, “und sometimes it sets my mitt afire.”
“Some speed!” agreed Lefty, as Jones, his head bent, reached the foot of the steps. “He looks tired.”
“He’s always that way after he tramps around a strange town,” said the owner of the Wind Jammers. “Afterward he usually goes to bed and rests, and he comes out to the games as full of fire and kinks as a boy who has stuffed himself with green apples. I’ll introduce you, Locke.”
The southpaw looked round again. Weegman was gone; probably he had vanished into the convenient door of the hotel. Cap’n Wiley drew Lefty forward to meet the voiceless pitcher, and, perceiving a stranger, Mysterious Jones halted at the top of the steps and stabbed him with a stare full in the face. Lefty had never looked into such searching, penetrating eyes.
Wiley made some deft and rapid movementswith his hands and fingers, using the deaf-and-dumb language to make Jones aware of the identity of the famous Big League pitcher. Already the mute had lapsed into disappointed indifference, but he accepted Locke’s offered hand and smiled in a faint, melancholy way.
“He’s feeling especially downcast to-day,” explained Wiley, “and so he’ll pitch like a fiend this afternoon. He always twirls his best when he’s gloomiest; appears to entertain the delusion that he’s taking acrimonious revenge on the world for handing him some sort of a raw deal. It would be a shame to use him against you the whole game, Lefty; he’d make your Grays look like a lot of infirm prunes.”
“Spare us,” pleaded Locke, in mock apprehension.
Jones did not linger long with his teammates on the veranda. With a solemn but friendly bow to Lefty, he passed on into the hotel, Wiley explaining that he was on his way to take his regular daily period of rest. Through the open door the southpaw watched the strange pitcher walk through the office and mount a flight of stairs. And from the little writing room Locke saw Bailey Weegman peer forth, his eyes following the mysterious one until the latter disappeared. Then Weegman hurriedto the desk and interviewed the clerk, after which he made an inspection of the names freshly written upon the hotel register.
The man’s behavior was singular, and Lefty decided that, for some reason, Weegman did not care to encounter Jones. This suspicion was strengthened when, scarcely more than an hour later, Charles Collier’s private secretary appeared at the little cottage occupied by Locke and his wife, and stated that he had made a change from the Magnolia Hotel to the Florida House, a second-rate and rather obscure place on the edge of the colored quarter.
“Couldn’t stand for Wiley and his gang of bushwhackers,” Weegman explained. “They made me sick, and I had to get out, even though I’m going to leave town at five-thirty this afternoon. That’s the first through train north that I can catch. Thought I’d let you know so you could find me in case you changed your mind about that offer.”
“You might have spared yourself the trouble,” said Locke coldly.
Weegman made a pretense of laughing. “No telling about that. Mules are obstinate, but even they can be made to change their minds if you build a hot enough fire under them. Don’t forget where you can find me.”
Lefty watched him walking away, and noted that his manner was somewhat nervous and unnatural. “I wonder,” murmured the pitcher, “why you put yourself to so much discomfort to avoid Mysterious Jones.”
Directed by Locke, the Grays put in an hour of sharp practice that forenoon. As Lefty had stated, the team was practically comprised of winter visitors from the North. Some of them had come South for their health, too. Three were well along in the thirties, and one had passed forty. Yet, for all such handicaps, they were an enthusiastic, energetic team, and they could play the game. At least five of them had once been stars on college nines. Having never lost their love for the game, they had rounded into form wonderfully under the coaching of the Big League pitcher. Also, in nearly every game they pulled off more or less of the stuff known as “inside baseball.”
They had been remarkably successful in defeating the teams they had faced, but Locke felt sure that, in spite of the conglomerate and freakish appearance of the Wind Jammers, it was not going to be an easy thing to take a fall out of Cap’n Wiley’s aggregation of talent. The self-styled “Marine Marvel” had a record; with players culled from the brambles as he knocked about thecountry, he had, in former days, put to shame many a strong minor league outfit that had patronizingly and somewhat disdainfully consented to give him an engagement on an off date. Unless the eccentric and humorously boastful manager of the Wind Jammers had lost much of his judgment and cunning during the recent years that he had been out of the public eye, the fastest independent team would have to keep awake and get a fair share of the breaks in order to trounce him.
Locke warmed up his arm a little, but, even though he felt scarcely a twinge of the lameness and stiffness that had given him so much apprehension, he was cautious. At one time, when the trouble was the worst, he had not been able to lift his left hand to his mouth. A massage expert in Fernandon had done much for him, and he hoped that he had done not a little for himself by perfecting a new style of delivery that did not put so much strain upon his shoulder. Still, until he should be forced to the test, he could never feel quite sure that he would be the same puzzle to the finest batsmen that he had once been. And it must be confessed that he had looked forward with some dread to the day when that test should come.
Suddenly he resolved that, in a way, he would meet the test at once. Doubtless the Wind Jammerswere batters of no mean caliber, for Wiley had always got together a bunch of sluggers.
“I’ll do it,” he decided; “I’ll go the limit. If I can’t do that now, after the rest I’ve had and the doctoring my arm has received, there’s not one chance in a thousand that I’ll ever be able to pitch in fast company again.”
Nearly all Fernandon turned out to the game. Many residents of the town, as well as a large number of the visitors from the North, came in carriages and automobiles. The covered reserved seats were filled, and, shielding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, an eager crowd packed the bleachers. On the sandy grass ground back of third base a swarm of chattering, grinning colored people sat and sprawled. Holding themselves proudly aloof from the negroes, a group of lanky, sallow “poor whites,” few of whom could read or write, were displaying their ignorance by their remarks about the game and the players. The mayor of the town had consented to act as umpire. At four o’clock he called “play.”
“Now we’re off!” sang Cap’n Wiley, waltzing gayly forth to the coaching position near third. “Here’s where we hoist anchor and get away with a fair wind.”
Nuccio, the olive-skinned Italian third baseman,selected his bat and trotted to the pan, grinning at Locke.
“Oh, you Lefty!” said he. “We gotta your number.”
“Put your marlinespike against the pill and crack the coating on it,” urged Wiley.
George Sommers, catcher for the Grays, adjusted his mask, crouched, signaled. Locke whipped one over the inside corner, and Nuccio fouled.
“Nicked it!” cried the Marine Marvel. “Now bust it on the figurehead and make for the first mooring. Show our highly steamed friend Lefty that he’s got to pitch to-day if he don’t want the wind taken out of his sails.”
The southpaw tried to lead Nuccio into reaching, but the batter caught himself in his swing. “Puta the ball over, Left,” he pleaded. “Don’t givea me the walk.”
The pitcher smiled and handed up a hopper. The batter fouled again, lifting the ball on to the top of the covered seats.
“I don’t think you need worry about walking,” said Sommers, returning after having made a vain start in pursuit of the sphere. “You’re in a hole already.”
Nuccio smiled. “Wait,” he advised. “I spoil the gooda ones.”
Another ball followed, then Lefty warped one across the comer. Nuccio drove it into right for a pretty single, bringing shouts of approval from the bench of the Wind Jammers. Wiley addressed Locke.
“Really,” he said, “I fear me much that you undervalue the batting capacity of my players. One and all, individually and collectively, they are there with the healthy bingle. Please, I beg of you, don’t let them pound you off the slab in the first inning, for that would puncture a hard-earned reputation and bring tears of regret to my tender eyes. For fear that you may be careless or disdainful, I warn you that this next man can’t touch anything down around his knees; his arms being attached to his shoulders at such a dim and distant altitude, he finds it difficult to reach down so far, even with the longest bat.”
Luther Bemis, the player referred to, was the marvelously tall and lanky center fielder of the Wind Jammers. He had a queer halting walk, like a person on stilts, and his appearance was so ludicrous that the spectators tittered and laughed outright. Their amusement did not disturb him, for he grinned cheerfully as he squared away, waving his long bat.
“Don’t you pay no ’tention to the cap ’n, Lefty,” he drawled, in a nasal voice. “I can hit um acrostthe knees jest as well as anywhere else. He’s tryin’ to fool ye.”
“Let’s see about that,” said Locke, putting one over low and close on the inside.
Bemis smashed out a hot grounder and went galloping to first with tremendous, ground-covering strides. For all of his awkward walk and the fact that he ran like a frightened giraffe, it would have required an excellent sprinter to beat him from the plate to the initial sack.
Norris, the shortstop, got his hand on the ball and stopped it, but it twisted out of his fingers. It was an error on a hard chance, for by the time he secured the sphere there was no prospect of getting either runner.
“Now that’s what I call misfortune when regarded from one angle, and mighty lucky if viewed from another,” said Wiley. “Beamy carries a rabbit’s foot; that’s why he’s second on our batting disorder. He does things like that when they’re least expected the most.”
Schaeffer was coaching at first. “Is it Lefty Locke against us pitching?” he cried. “And such an easiness! Took a lead, efrybody, and move along when the Irisher hits.”
“I hate to do ut,” protested Barney O’Reilley, shaking his red head as he walked into position. “It’s a pain it gives me, Lefty, but I have to earnme salary. No bad feelings, ould man. You understand.”
“Just one moment,” called Wiley, holding up his hand. “Sympathy impels me. I have a tender heart. Lefty, I feel that I must warn you again. This descendant of the Irish nobility can hit anything that sails over the platter. If it were not a distressing fact that Schepps, who follows, is even a more royal batter, I would advise you to walk O’Reilley. As it is, I am in despair.”
The crowd was not pleased. It began to beg Locke to fan O’Reilley, and when the Irishman missed the first shoot the pleadings increased.
“Barney is sympathetic also,” cried Cap’n Wiley; “but he’d better not let his sympathy carry him amain, whatever that is. I shall fine him if he doesn’t hit the ball.”
Locke had begun to let himself out in earnest, for the situation was threatening. It would not be wise needlessly to permit the Wind Jammers to get the jump. They were a confident, aggressive team, and would fight to the last gasp to hold an advantage. The southpaw realized that it would be necessary to do some really high-grade twirling to prevent them from grabbing that advantage in short order.
Tug Schepps, a tough-looking, hard-faced person, was swinging two bats and chewing tobaccoas he waited to take his turn. He was a product of the sand lots.
“Land on it, Barney, old top!” urged Tug. “Swat it on der trade-mark an’ clean der sacks. Dis Lefty boy don’t seem such a much.”
Locke shot over a high one.
“Going up!” whooped O’Reilley, ignoring it.
“Get ’em down below the crow’s nest,” entreated Wiley. “You’re not pitching to Bemis now.”
The southpaw quickly tried a drop across the batter’s shoulders, and, not expecting that the ball had so much on it, Barney let it pass. He made a mild kick when the mayor-umpire called a strike. “It’s astigmatism ye have, Mr. Mayor,” he said politely.
The next one was too close, but O’Reilley fell back and hooked it past third base. Even though the left fielder had been playing in, Nuccio might possibly have scored had he not stumbled as he rounded the corner. Wiley started to grab the fallen runner, but remembered the new rule just in time, and desisted.
“Put about!” he shouted. “Head back to the last port!”
The Italian scrambled back to the sack, spluttering. He reached it ahead of the throw from the fielder. Cap’n Wiley pretended to shed tears.
“Is it possible,” he muttered, shaking his head, “that this is the great Lefty Locke? If so, it must be true that his star is on the decline. Alas and alack, life is filled with such bitter disappointments.”
Whether the regret of Wiley was real or pretended, it was shared by a large part of the spectators, who were friendly to the local team; for Locke had become very well liked in Fernandon, both by the citizens of the place and the Northern visitors.
It must not be imagined that, with the corners crowded and no one down, Locke was fully at his ease. He had decided to make this game the test of his ability to “come back,” and already it looked as if the first inning would give him his answer. If he could not successfully hold in check this heterogeneous collection of bush talent, it was easy to understand what would happen to him the next time he essayed to twirl for the Blue Stockings. A sickening sense of foreboding crept over him, but his lips wore a smile, and he showed no sign of being perturbed.
Schepps was at the plate, having discarded one of the bats he had been swinging. He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Always t’ought I could bump a real league pitcher,” he said. “Put one acrost, pal, an’ I’ll tear der cover off.”
Locke hesitated. He had been using the new delivery he had acquired to spare his shoulder. In previous games it had proved effective enough to enable him to continue four or five innings, but now–
Suddenly he whipped the ball to third, sending Nuccio diving headlong back to the sack. The crafty little Italian had been creeping off, ready to make a flying dash for the plate. He was safe by a hair.
“Not on your movie film!” cried Cap’n Wiley. “It can’t be done!”
Lefty did not hear him. He was gazing past the Marine Marvel at the face of a man who, taking care to keep himself unobtrusively in the background, was peering at him over the shoulders of a little group of spectators–a grinning, mocking derisive face.
It was Weegman. And Weegman knew!
Even after the ball was thrown back from third, and Lefty had turned away, that grinning, mocking face continued to leer at him. Wherever he looked it hovered before his mental vision like a taunting omen of disaster. He was “all in,” and Weegman knew it. The man had told him, with sneering bluntness, that his “old soup bone was on the blink.” Yet, entertaining this settled conviction regarding Locke’s worthlessness as a pitcher, Weegman had made a long and wearisome journey in order that he might be absolutely sure, by putting the deal through in person, of signing the southpaw for the Blue Stockings at an increased salary. The very fact that he had been offered the position of manager, under conditions that would make him a mere puppet without any real managerial authority, gave the proposition a blacker and more sinister look.
Sommers was signaling. Lefty shook his head to rid himself of that hateful chimera. Misunderstanding, the catcher quickly changed the sign.The pitcher delivered the ball called for first, and it went through Sommers like a fine shot through an open sieve.
Nuccio scored from third with ease, Bemis and O’Reilley advancing at the same time. The Wind Jammers roared from the bench. Cap’n Wiley threw up his hands.
“Furl every stitch!” cried the manager of the visitors. “Batten the hatches! The storm is upon us! It’s going to be a rip-sizzler. I’m afraid the wreck will be a total loss.”
Covering the plate, Lefty took the ball from Sommers.
“How did you happen to cross me?” asked the catcher.
“It was my fault,” was the prompt acknowledgment; “but it won’t happen again.”
“I hope not,” said Sommers. He wanted to suggest that Locke should retire at once and let Matthews take up the pitching, but he refrained.
The southpaw was doing some serious thinking as he walked back to the mound. However well his newly acquired delivery had seemed to serve him on other occasions, he was convinced that it would not do now; either he must pitch in his own natural way and do his best, or he must retire and let Dade Matthews try to check the overconfident aggressors. If he retired, he would prolong theuncertainty in his own mind; he would leave himself in doubt as to whether or not there was any prospect of his return to the Big League as a twirler worthy of his hire. More than doubt, he realized, he would be crushed by a conviction that he was really down and out.
“I’ve pampered my arm long enough,” he decided. “I’m going to find out if there’s anything left in it.”
Perhaps the decision was unwise. The result of the game with the Wind Jammers was of no importance, but Locke felt that, for his own peace of mind, he must know what stuff was left in him. And there was no one present with authority, no coach, no counselor, to restrain him. There was a strange, new gleam in his eyes when he once more toed the slab. His faint smile had not vanished, but it had taken lines of grimness.
Schepps tapped the plate with his bat. “Come on, pal,” he begged; “don’t blow up. Gimme one of der real kind, an’ lemme have a swat at it.”
The crowd was silent; even the chattering darkies had ceased their noise. Only the Wind Jammers jubilated on the bench and the coaching lines.
Poising himself, Locke caught Sommer’s signal, and nodded. Then he swung his arm with the old free, supple, whiplash motion, and the ball that left his fingers cut the air like a streak of white, takinga really remarkable hop. Schepps’ “swat” was wasted.
“Now, dat’s like it!” cried the sandlotter. “Where’ve you been keepin’ dat kind, old boy? Gimme a duplicate.”
Lefty watched Bemis, the long-legged ground coverer, working away toward the plate, and drove him back. But he seemed to have forgotten O’Reilley, and the Irishman was taking a lead on which he should have little trouble in scoring if Schepps drove out a safety. Farther and farther he crept up toward third.
Sommers tugged at his mask with an odd little motion. Like a flash the southpaw whirled about and shot the ball to second, knowing some one would be there to take the throw. Mel Gates was the man who covered the bag, and O’Reilley found himself caught between second and third. Gates went after him, and the Irishman ran toward third. But Locke had cut in on the line, and he took a throw from Gates that caused O’Reilley to turn back abruptly. Behind Gates, Norris was covering the cushion. Tremain came down a little from third to back Lefty up.
Colby had raced from first base to the plate in order to support Sommers, for Bemis was swiftly creeping down to make a dash. On the coaching line, Cap’n Wiley did a wild dance. The spectatorswere thrilled by the sudden excitement of the moment.
Lefty ran O’Reilley back toward second, and he knew Bemis was letting himself out in an attempt to score. Swinging instantly, Locke made a rifle-accurate throw to Sommers, who jammed the ball on to the long-geared runner as he was sliding for the plate. The affair had been so skillfully managed that not only was O’Reilley prevented from advancing, but also the attempt to sneak a tally while the Irishman was being run down had resulted disastrously for the Wind Jammers.
“Dat’s der only way dey can get us out,” said Schepps. “Dis Lefty person looks to me like a lemon!”
Cap’n Wiley was philosophically cheerful. “Just a little lull in the tornado,” he said. “It’s due to strike again in a minute.”
Lefty looked the confident Schepps over, and then he gave him a queer drop that deceived him even worse than the swift hopper. The spectators, who had been worried a short time before, now expressed their approval; and when, a minute later, the southpaw whiffed the sandlotter, there was a sudden burst of handclapping and explosions of boisterous laughter from the delighted darkies.
“Wh-who’s dat man said lemon?” cried one. “Dat Lefty pusson sho’ handed him one dat time!”
“Is it possible,” said Cap’n Wiley, “that I’m going to be compelled to revise my dates regarding that wreck?” Then he roared at the Swede: “Get into the game, Oleson! It’s your watch on deck, and you want to come alive. The wrong ship’s being scuttled.”
“Aye, aye, captain!” responded Oleson. “Mebbe Ay do somethin’ when Ay get on the yob. Yust keep your eye on me.” Believing himself a hitter superior to the men who had touched Locke up so successfully at the beginning of the game, he strode confidently forth, for all of the failure of Schepps.
Sizing up the Swede, Lefty tested him with a curve, but Oleson betrayed no disposition to reach. A drop followed, and the batter fouled it. His style of swinging led the southpaw to fancy that he had a preference for drops, and therefore Locke wound the next one round his neck, puncturing his weakness. Not only did Oleson miss, but he swung in a manner that made it doubtful if he would drive the ball out of the infield if he happened to hit one of that kind.
“Hit it where you missed it!” implored Wiley. “Don’t let him bamboozle you with the chin wipers.” Then he turned on O’Reilley. “Cast off that mooring! Break your anchor loose and get under way! Man the halyards and crack onevery stitch! You’ve got to make port when Ole stings the horsehide.”
In spite of himself, Lefty was compelled to laugh outright at the Marine Marvel’s coaching contortions. “Calm yourself, cap’n,” he advised. “The hurricane is over.”
“How can I calm myself when calamity threatens?” was the wild retort. “You are a base deceiver, Lefty. Such chicanery is shameful! I don’t know what chicanery means, but it seems to fit the offense.”
And now the spectators fell to laughing at the swarthy little man, who did not seem to be so very offensive, after all, and who was injecting more than a touch of vaudeville comedy into the game.
Oleson waited patiently, still determined to hit, although somewhat dismayed by his two failures to gauge the left-hander’s slants. But when Lefty suddenly gave him another exactly like the last, he slashed at it awkwardly and fruitlessly. The crowd broke into a cheer, and the Swede turned dazedly from the plate, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow.
“That Lefty he bane some pitcher,” admitted Oleson. “He got a good yump ball.”
To a degree, Locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been a sheer waste of time. Working against batters who were dangerous, his artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would hold them in check. He had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted to his natural form.
But what would that do to his shoulder? Could he pitch like that and go the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? Should he attempt it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last heart-breaking game in the Big League.
Involuntarily, as he left the mound, he looked around for Weegman, who had disappeared. It gave Lefty some satisfaction to feel that, for thetime being, at least, he had wiped the mocking grin from the schemer’s face.
Cap’n Wiley jogged down from third, an expression of injured reproof puckering his countenance. “I am pained to the apple core,” he said. “My simple, trusting nature has received a severe shock. Just when I thought we had you meandering away from here, Lefty, you turned right round and came back. If you handed us that one lone tally to chirk us along, let me reassure you that you made the mistake of your young life; I am going to ascend the hillock and do some volleying, which makes it extensively probable that the run we have garnered will be sufficient to settle the game.”
“Don’t be so unfeeling!” responded Locke. “Give us Mysterious Jones.”
“Oh, perchance you may be able to get on the sacks with me pushing ’em over; but if Jones unlimbered his artillery on you, he’d mow you down as fast as you toddled up to the pentagon. You see, I wish the assemblage to witness some slight semblance of a game.”
In action upon the slab, Wiley aroused still further merriment. His wind-up before delivering the ball was most bewildering. His writhing, squirming twists would have made a circus contortionist gasp. First he seemed to tie himself into knots, pressing the ball into the pit of his stomachlike a person in excruciating anguish. On the swing back, he turned completely away from the batter, facing second base for a moment, at the same time poising himself on his right foot and pointing his left foot toward the zenith. Then he came forward and around, as if he would put the sphere over with the speed of a cannon ball–and handed up a little, slow bender.
But he need not have troubled himself to put a curve on that first one, for Fred Hallett, leading off for the Grays, stood quite still and stared like a person hypnotized. The ball floated over, and the umpire called a strike, which led Hallett to shake himself and join in the laughter of the crowd.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” spluttered Wiley. “Was my speed too much for you? Couldn’t you see it when it came across? Shall I pitch you a slow one?”
Hallett shook his head, unable to reply.
“Oh, vurry, vurry well,” said the Marine Marvel. “As you choose. I don’t want to be too hard on you.” Then, after going through with a startling variation of the former convulsions, he did pitch a ball that was so speedy that the batsman swung too slowly. And, a few minutes later, completing the performance to his own satisfaction, he struck Hallett out with a neat little drop. “I preen myself,” said he, “that I’m still there withthe huckleberries. As a pitcher of class, I’ve got Matty and a few others backed up against the ropes. Bring on your next victim.”
Charlie Watson found the burlesque so amusing that he laughed all the way from the bench to the plate. The eccentric pitcher looked at him sympathetically.
“When you get through shedding tears,” he said, “I’ll pitch to you. I hate to see a strong man weep.”
Then, without the slightest warning, using no wind-up whatever, he snapped one straight over, catching Watson unprepared. That sobered Watson down considerably.
“I’m glad to see you feeling better,” declared the manager of the Wind Jammers. “Now that you’re quite prepared, I’ll give you something easy.”
The slow one that he tossed up seemed to hang in the air with the stitches showing. Watson hit it and popped a little fly into Wiley’s hands, the latter not being compelled to move out of his tracks. He removed his cap and bowed his thanks.
Doc Tremain walked out seriously enough, apparently not at all amused by the horseplay that was taking place. With his hands on his hips, Wiley stared hard at Tremain.
“Here’s a jolly soul!” cried the pitcher. “He’s simply laughing himself sick. I love to see a man enjoy himself so diabolically.”
“Oh, play ball!” the doctor retorted tartly. “This crowd isn’t here to see monkeyshines.”
“Then they won’t look at you, my happy friend. And that’s a dart of subtle repartee.”
Wiley’s remarkable wind-up and delivery did not seem to bother Tremain, who viciously smashed the first ball pitched to him. It was a savage line drive slightly to the left of the slabman, but the latter shot out his gloved hand with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed the whistling sphere. Having made the catch, the Marine Marvel tossed the ball carelessly to the ground and sauntered toward the bench with an air of bored lassitude. There was a ripple of applause.
“You got off easy that time, cap’n,” said Locke, coming out. “When are you going to let us have a crack at Jones?”
“A crack at him!” retorted Wiley. “Don’t make me titter, Lefty! Your assemblage of would-bes never could get anything remotely related to a crack off Jones. However, when ongwee begins to creep over me I’ll let him go in and polish you off.”
“Colonel” Rickey, leading off for the WindJammers in the second, hoisted an infield fly, and expressed his annoyance in a choice Southern drawl as he went back to the bench.
Peter Plum, the fat right fielder, followed, poling out an infield drive which, to the amazement of the crowd, he nearly turned into a safety by the most surprising dash to first. Impossible though it seemed, the chunky, short-legged fellow could run like a deer, and when he was cut down by little more than a yard at the hassock he vehemently protested that it was robbery.
Locke was taking it easy now; he almost seemed to invite a situation that would again put his arm to the test. There was a queer feeling in his shoulder, a feeling he did not like, and he wondered if he could “tighten” in repeated pinches, as he had so frequently done when facing the best batters in the business. But, though he grooved one to Schaeffer, the catcher boosted an easy fly to Watson in left field.
Wiley went through the second inning unharmed, although, with two down, Colby landed on the horsehide for two sacks. Coming next, Gates bit at a slow one and lifted a foul to the third baseman.
“Now give me my faithful bludgeon,” cried the Marine Marvel, making for the bats. “Watch me start something! I’m going to lacerate the feelingsof this man Lefty. I hate to do it, but I hear the clarion call of duty.”
Locke decided to strike Wiley out. Wiley picked out a smoking shoot, and banged it on a line for one sack.
“Nice tidy little bingle, wasn’t it, mate?” he cried. “I fancied mayhap Dame Rumor had slandered you, but alas! I fear me you are easy for a real batter with an eye.”
Nuccio was up again, and he also hit safely, Wiley going to third on the drive. Locke’s teeth clicked together. Was it possible that real batters could find him with such ease? If so, the Big League would see him no more; he would not return to it. If so, his days as a pitcher were surely ended. For a moment Bailey Weegman’s grinning face again rose vaguely before him.
“I must know!” he muttered. “I must settle these infernal doubts that are torturing me.”
Luther Bemis blundered. He had been given the signal to let Nuccio steal, but he hit at the ball and raised a foul to Colby, who stepped back upon first and completed a double play unassisted, the Italian having made a break for second. Nuccio was disgusted, and Cap’n Wiley made a few remarks to Bemis that caused the lengthy center fielder to retire to the bench in confusion.
“There has been a sudden addition to the bone crop,” concluded the vexed manager of the Wind Jammers. “Beamy, in order to avoid getting your dates mixed, you should carry a telescope and take an occasional survey of the earth’s surface.”
“Niver mind, cap’n,” called O’Reilley. “I’ll put ye across whin I hit.”
With a twinge of apprehension, Locke sought to trick the confident Irishman into biting at a curve. And, even as he pitched, he was annoyed with himself because apprehension preventedhim from bending the ball over. O’Reilley stubbornly declined to bite.
There was a sudden chorus of warning shouts as Sommers returned the ball, and the pitcher was surprised to see Cap’n Wiley running for the registry station. The foxy old veteran was actually trying to steal home on the Big League pitcher. Laughing, Lefty waited for the ball, aware that Sommers was leaping into position to nail the runner. Without undue haste, yet without wasting a second, the slabman snapped the sphere back to the eager hands of the catcher, who poked it into the sliding man’s ribs. Wiley was out by four feet, at least.
“Why didn’t you wait for O’Reilley to hit?” Locke asked.
“I wanted to spare your already tattered nerves,” was the instant answer. “You see, sympathy may be found elsewhere than in the dictionary.”
Still floundering in the bog of doubt, Lefty was far from satisfied. He had told himself that he invited the test which would give him the answer he sought, yet he realized that, face to face with it, he had felt a shrinking, a qualm, akin to actual dread; and he was angry with himself because he drew a breath of relief when the blundering and reckless playing of the Wind Jammers postponedthe ordeal, leaving him still groping in the dark.
Sommers led off with a hot grounder, which O’Reilley booted. Playing the game, Locke bunted, advancing Sommers and perishing himself at first.
“Cleverly done,” admitted Cap’n Wiley, “but it will avail you naught. I shall now proceed to decorate the pill with the oil of elusion.”
A friend called to Lefty in the crowd back of first, and the pitcher walked back to exchange a few words with him. He was turning away when a hand fell on his arm, and he looked round to find Weegman there. The man’s face wore a supercilious and knowing smile.
“I didn’t mean to attend this game,” said Weegman, “but, having the time, I decided to watch part of it, as it would give me a good chance to settle a certain point definitely in my mind. What I’ve seen has been quite enough. Your arm is gone, Locke, and you know it. You’re laboring like a longshoreman against this bunch of bushers, and, working hard as you are, you couldn’t hold them only for their dub playing. I admit that you struck out some of their weakest stickers, but you were forced to the limit to do it, and it made that injured wing of yours wilt. They had yougoing in the last round, and threw away their chance by bonehead playing.”
“Weegman,” said Locke, “I’m tired of hearing you talk. The sound of your voice makes me weary.”
But instead of being disturbed the man chuckled. “The truth frequently is unpleasant,” he returned; “and you know I am speaking the raw truth. Now I like you, Locke; I’ve always liked you, and I hate to see you go down and out for good. That’s what it means if you don’t accept my offer. As manager of the Blue Stockings, you can hold your job this season if you don’t pitch a ball; it’ll enable you to stay in the business in a new capacity, and you’ll not be dependent on your arm. A pitcher’s arm may fail him any time. As a manager, you may last indefinitely.”
“It would be a crime if the sort of a manager you want lasted a month.”
“If you don’t come at my terms, you may kiss yourself good-by. The Feds are going to learn that your flinger is gone; be sure of that.”
“That’s a threat?”
“A warning. If their crazy offer has tempted you, put the temptation aside. That offer will be withdrawn. Every manager and magnate in the business is going to know that as a pitcher youhave checked in. There’s only one door for you to return by, and I’m holding it open.” He laughed and placed his hand again ingratiatingly upon Locke’s arm.
Locke shook it off instantly. “Were I as big a rascal as you, Weegman,” he said, with limitless contempt, “I’d make a dash through that door. Thank Heaven, I’m not!”
The baffled man snapped his fingers. “You are using language you’ll regret!” he harshly declared, although he maintained his smiling demeanor to such a degree that any one a few yards distant might have fancied the conversation between the two was of the pleasantest sort.
Lefty returned to the coaching line, taking the place of Tremain; for Wiley had issued a pass to Hallett, Watson was at bat, and the doctor followed Watson. Instantly sizing up the situation, the southpaw signaled for a double steal, and both runners started with the first movement of the pitcher’s delivery. Schaeffer’s throw to third was not good, and Sommers slid under. Hallett had no trouble about reaching second.
“What are you trying to pull off here?” cried the manager of the Wind Jammers. “Such behavior is most inconsiderate, or words to that effect. However it simply makes it necessary for me to inject a few more kinks into the horsehide.”
Admittedly he did hand up some peculiar curves to Watson, but his control was so poor that none of the twisters came over and like Hallett, the left fielder walked. This peopled the corners.
“Here,” said Wiley, still chipper and undisturbed, “is that jolly soul who obligingly batted an easy one into my fin the last time. I passed the last hitter in order to get at this kind party again.”
Tremain let one pitch go by, but the next one pleased him, and he cracked the ball on the nose. It was a two-base drive, which enabled the runners already on to score. As the three raced over the plate, one after another, Wiley was seen violently wigwagging toward the bench. In response to his signal, Mysterious Jones rose promptly and prepared to warm up with the second catcher.
“I’m off to-day; perhaps I should say I’m awful,” admitted the Marine Marvel. “A spazoozum like that is sufficient to open my eyes to the humiliating fact that I’m not pitching up to class. In a few minutes, however, you’ll have an opportunity to see Mr. Jones uncork some of the real stuff.”
Wiley dallied with the next batter for the purpose of giving the dummy pitcher time to shake the kinks out of his arm. Apparently Jones did not need much time in which to get ready, forwhen the sailor presently dealt out another pass the relief twirler signified his willingness to assume the burden.
As Jones walked out upon the diamond, Locke looked around vainly for Weegman. It was possible, of course, that Collier’s private secretary had departed at once following his last rebuff, but somehow Lefty felt that he was still lingering and taking pains not to be seen by Mysterious Jones. Suddenly the southpaw felt a desire to bring the two men face to face, wondering what would happen. There was more than a possibility that such a meeting might present some dramatic features.
Turning back, Lefty’s eyes followed Jones. The interest and fascination he had felt at first sight of the man returned, taking hold upon him powerfully and intensely. There was something in the solemn face of the mute that spoke of shattered hopes, deep and abiding sorrow, despair, tragedy. He was like one who stood aloof even while he mingled with mankind. Knowing other mutes, many of whom seemed happy and contented, Locke could not believe that the peculiarities of Mysterious Jones were wholly due to resentment against the affliction which fate had placed upon him. Behind it all there must lay a story with perhaps more than one dark page.
As a pitcher, Jones displayed no needless flourishes. His style of delivery was simple but effective. Into the swing of his long arm he put the throwing force of his fine shoulder and sinewy body. Wiley had exaggerated in boasting of the mute’s speed; nevertheless that speed was something to marvel at. Norris, the clean-up man of the Grays, who preferred smokers to any other kind, was too slow in striking at the first two pitched to him by Jones. Norris looked astounded and incredulous, and the spectators gasped.
“That’s his slow one, mates!” cried Wiley. “Pretty soon, when he gets loosened up, he’ll let out a link or two and burn a few across. The daisies are growing above the only man he ever hit with the ball.”
Although Norris was not slow in swinging at the next one, the sphere took a shoot that deceived him, and the mute had disposed of the first hitter with three pitched balls.
“And the wiseacres say there are no real heavers left in the bushes!” whooped Cap’n Wiley.
Locke was thrilled. Could it be that here was a discovery, a find, a treasure like a diamond in the rough, left around underfoot amid pebbles? The Big League scouts are the grubstakers, the prospectors, the treasure hunters of baseball; ceaselessly and tirelessly they scour the country even to the remote corners and out-of-the-way regions where the game nourishes in the crude, lured on constantly by the hope of making a big find. To them the unearthing of a ball player of real ability and promise is like striking the outcroppings of a Comstock or a Kimberly; and among the cheering surface leads that they discover, a hundred peter out into worthlessness, where one develops into a property of value. More and more the scouts complain that the ground has been raked over again and again and the prizes are growing fewer and farther between; yet every now and then, where least expected, one of them will turn up something rich that has been overlooked by journeying too far afield. The fancy that Mysterious Jones might be one of these unnoticed nuggets set Locke’s pulses throbbing.
Jones had appeared to be a trifle slender in street clothes, but now Lefty could see that hewas the possessor of fine muscles and whipcord sinews. There was no ounce of unnecessary flesh upon him anywhere; he was like an athlete trained to the minute and hardened for an enduring test by long and continuous work. There seemed little likelihood that protracted strain would expose a flaw. He had speed and stamina; if he possessed the required skill and brains, there was every reason to think that he might “deliver the goods.” With the advent of the silent man upon the mound, Locke’s attention became divided between doubts about himself and interest in the performance of the mute.
Hampton, who followed Norris, was quite as helpless against the dazzling speed of Jones; he could not even foul the ball. “Great smoke, Locke!” he exclaimed, pausing on his way to center field. “That man’s a terror! He seems to groove them all, but you can’t see them come over.”
“Perhaps he can’t keep it up,” said Lefty.
“I hope not. If he does, we’ve got to win on the runs we’ve made already; there’ll be no more scoring for us. It’s up to you to hold them down.”
The southpaw held them in the fourth, but he did so by working his head fully as much as his arm. By this time he had learned something ofthe hitting weaknesses of the Wind Jammers, and he played upon those weaknesses successfully. To his teammates and the spectators the performance was satisfactory; to him it proved only that his brain, if not his arm, was still in perfect condition.
Mysterious Jones came back with two strikeouts; in fact, he struck Sommers, the third man, out also; but the whistling, shooting sphere went through the catcher, and Sommers raced to first on the error. This brought Locke up, and he was eager to hit against Jones. He missed the first one cleanly, but fouled the next two, which was better than any one else had done. Then the silent man put something more on the ball, and Lefty failed to touch it.
“Nice little pitcher, don’t you think?” inquired Cap’n Wiley blandly.
“He behaves well, very well,” admitted the southpaw.
The Grays implored Locke to keep the enemy in hand; the crowd entreated him. This was the game they desired to win. To them it was a struggle of vital importance, and the winning or losing of it was the only question of moment. They did not dream of something a thousand times more momentous involving Lefty Locke.
Loyal to the team and its supporters, the southpawcould not take needless chances of losing, no matter how much he longed to be put upon his mettle and forced to the last notch. Therefore he continued to work his head while on the slab. Schaeffer fouled out, Jones fanned indifferently, and Nuccio popped to shortstop.
“Lucky boy!” called Wiley. “But things won’t always break so well for you. You’ll have to go your limit before the game is over.”
“I hope so,” said Lefty.
Hallett caught one of Jones’ whistlers on the end of his bat and drove it straight into the hands of the first baseman.
“Hooray!” laughed Watson. “At least that shows that he can be hit.”
“A blind man might hit one in a million if he kept his bat swinging,” scoffed Wiley. “Let’s see you do as much.”
Watson could not do as much; he fanned three times. Then Jones pitched four balls to Tremain, and the doctor placed himself in Watson’s class.
The game had become a pitchers’ battle, with one twirler cutting the batters down with burning speed and shoots, while the other held them in check through the knowledge he had swiftly acquired regarding their shortcomings with the stick. In every way the performance of Jones was the most spectacular, and in the crowd scoresof persons were beginning to tell one another that the mute was the greater pitcher.
The truth was, experience in fast company had taught Lefty Locke to conserve his energies; like Mathewson, he believed that the eight players who supported him should shoulder a share of the defensive work, and it was not his practice to “put everything on the ball,” with the cushions clean. Only when pinches came did he tighten and burn them across. Nor was he in that class of pitchers who are continually getting themselves into holes by warping them wide to lure batters into reaching; for he had found that a twirler who followed such a method would be forced to go the limit by cool and heady batters who made a practice of “waiting it out.” Having that prime requisite of all first-class moundmen, splendid control, he sought out an opponent’s weakest spot and kept the ball there, compelling the man to strike at the kind from which he was least likely to secure effective drives. This had led a large number of the fans who fancied themselves wise to hold fast to their often-expressed belief that the southpaw was lucky, but they were always looking for the opposition to fall on him and hammer him all over the lot.
Therefore it was not strange that the crowd, assembled to watch the game in Fernandon, shouldsoon come to regard the mute, with his blinding speed and jagged shoots, as the superior slabman. Apparently without striving for effect, Jones was a spectacular performer; mechanical skill and superabundant energy were his to the limit. But Locke knew that something more was needed for a man to make good in the Big League. Nevertheless, with such a foundation to build upon, unless the fellow should be flawed by some overshadowing natural weakness that made him impossible, coaching, training, and experience were the rungs of the ladder by which he might mount close to the top.
Loyal to the core, Lefty was thinking of the pitching staff of the Blue Stockings, weakened by deflections to the Federals, possibly by his own inability to return. For a little time, even Weegman was forgotten. Anyway, the southpaw had not yet come to regard it as a settled thing that Bailey Weegman would be permitted to undermine and destroy the great organization, if such was his culpable design; in some manner the scoundrel would be blocked and baffled.
The sixth inning saw no break in the run of the game between the Grays and the Wind Jammers. Bemis, O’Reilley, and Schepps all hit Locke, but none hit safely, while Jones slaughtered three of the locals by the strike-out method. As Wiley hadstated was the silent man’s custom, he seemed to be seeking revenge on the world for giving him a raw deal.
When Oleson began the seventh with a weak grounder and “got a life” through an error, Lefty actually felt a throb of satisfaction, for it seemed that the test might be forced upon him at last. But the Swede attempted to steal on the first pitch to Rickey, and Sommers threw him out. Rickey then lifted a high fly just back of first base, and Colby put him out of his misery. Plum batted an easy one to second.
“There’s only one thing for me to do,” thought Locke. “I’ve got to work the strike-out stuff in the next two innings, just as if men were on bases, and see if I’ve got it. The game will be over if I wait any longer for a real pinch.”
When Jones had polished off Gates and Sommers, Locke stepped out to face the mute the second time. Having watched the man and analyzed his performance, the southpaw felt that he should be able to obtain a hit. “If I can’t lay the club against that ball,” he told himself, “then that fellow’s putting something on it beside speed and curves; he’s using brains also.”
Cap’n Wiley jumped up from the bench and did a sailor’s hornpipe. “This is the life!” he cried. “The real thing against the real thing! Takesoundings, Lefty; you’re running on shoals. You’ll be high and dry in a minute.”
Straight and silent, Jones stood and looked at the Big League player, both hands holding the ball hidden before him. Wiley ceased his dancing and shouting and a hush settled on the crowd. To Locke it seemed that the eyes of the voiceless pitcher were plumbing the depths of his mind and searching out his hidden thoughts; there came to Lefty a ridiculous fancy that by some telepathic method the man on the slab could fathom his purposes and so make ready to defeat them. An uncanny feeling crept upon him, and he was annoyed. Jones pitched, and the batsman missed a marvelous drop, which he had not been expecting.
“Perhaps I’ll have to revise my theory about him not using brains,” was the southpaw’s mental admission.
The next two pitches were both a trifle wide, and Lefty declined to bite at either. For the first time, as if he knew that here was a test, Jones appeared to be trying to “work” the batter. Locke fouled the following one.
“That’s all there is to it,” declared Wiley, “and I’m excruciatingly surprised that there should be even that much. Go ’way back, Mr. Locke!”
Again Jones surveyed Lefty with his piercingeyes, and for the third time he pitched a shoot that was not quite across. As if he had known it would not be over, the batsman made not even the slightest move to swing.
“Some guessing match!” confessed the Marine Marvel. “Now, however, let me give you my plighted word of dishonor that you’re going to behold a specimen of the superfluous speed Jonesy keeps on tap for special occasions. Hold your breath and see if you can see it go by.”
The ball did not go by; Lefty hit it fairly and sent a safety humming to right.
“Is it poss-i-bill!” gasped Cap’n Wiley, staggering and clutching at his forehead. “I am menaced by a swoon! Water! Whisky! I’ll accept anything to revive me!”
Fred Hallett hurried to the pan with his bat. “It’s my turn now,” he said. “We’ve started on him, and we should all hit him.”
Locke signalled that he would steal, and Hallett let the first one pass. Lefty went down the line like a streak, but Schaeffer made a throw that forced him to hit the dirt and make a hook slide. He caught his spikes in the bag and gave his ankle a twist that sent a pain shooting up his leg.
“Safe!” declared the umpire.
Locke did not get up. The crowd saw him drag himself to the bag and sit on it, rubbing his ankle. Schepps bent over him solicitously.
“Dat was a nice little crack, pal,” said the sandlotter, “and a nifty steal. Hope youse ain’t hoited.”
But Lefty had sprained his ankle so seriously that he required assistance to walk from the field.A runner was put in his place, although Wiley informed them that they need not take the trouble. And Wiley was right, for Jones struck Hallett out.
It was impossible for Locke to continue pitching, so Matthews took his place. And the southpaw was left still uncertain and doubtful; the game had not provided the test he courted. Weegman apparently had departed; there was no question in the mind of Charles Collier’s representative, and, angered by the rebuff he had encountered, he was pretty certain to spread the report that the great southpaw was “all in.” He had practically threatened to do this when he declared that every manager and magnate in the business would soon know that Locke’s pitching days were over.
The Wind Jammers, spurred on by Cap’n Wiley, went after Matthews aggressively, and for a time it appeared certain that they were going to worry him off his feet. With only one down, they pushed a runner across in the eighth, and there were two men on the sacks when a double play blighted their prospect of tying up, perhaps of taking the lead, at once.
As Jones continued invulnerable in the last of the eighth, the visitors made their final assault upon Matthews in the ninth. But fortune was against them. The game ended with Wiley greatly disappointed, though still cheerful.
“A little frost crept into my elbow in the far-away regions of the North,” he admitted. “I’ll shake it out in time. If I’d started old Jonesy against Lefty, there would have been a different tale to tell.”
The Wind Jammers were booked to play in Jacksonville the following afternoon, but they remained in Fernandon overnight. Seated on the veranda of the Magnolia, Wiley was enjoying a cigar after the evening meal, and romancing, as usual, when Locke appeared, limping, with the aid of a cane.
“It grieves me to behold your sorry plight,” said the Marine Marvel sympathetically. “I cajole with you most deprecatingly. But why, if you were going to get hurt at all, weren’t you obliging enough to do it somewhat earlier in the pastime? That would have given my faithful henchmen a chance to put the game away on ice.”
“You can’t be sure about that,” returned Lefty. “You collected no more scores off Matthews than you did off me.”
“But you passed us six nice, ripe goose eggs, while he dealt out only one. There was a difference that could be distinguished with the unclothed optic. Nevertheless, it seems to me that Jones had something on you; while he officiated, you were the only person who did any gamboling onthe cushions, and what you did didn’t infect the result. What do you think of Jones?”
“Will you lend me your ear while I express my opinion privately?”
“With the utmost perspicacity,” said Wiley, rising. “Within my boudoir–excuse my fluid French–I’ll uncork either ear you prefer and let you pour it full to overflowing.”
In the privacy of Wiley’s room, without beating around the bush, Locke stated that he believed Jones promising material for the Big League, and that he wished to size up the man.
“While I have no scouting commission or authority,” said Lefty, “if Kennedy should manage the Blue Stockings this season, he’d stand by my judgment. The team must have pitchers. Of course, some will be bought in the regular manner, but I know that, on my advice, Kennedy would take Jones on and give him a show to make good, just as he gave me a chance when I was a busher. I did not climb up by way of the minors; I made one clean jump from the back pastures into the Big League.”
“Mate,” said Wiley, “let me tell you something a trifle bazaar: Jones hasn’t the remotest ambition in the world to become a baseball pitcher.”
Locke stared at him incredulously. Theswarthy little man was serious–at least, as serious as he could be.
“Then,” asked the southpaw, “why is he pitching?”
“Tellme!I’ve done a little prognosticating over that question.”
“You say he does not talk about himself. How do you–”
“Let me elucidate, if I can. I told you I ran across Jones in Alaska. I saw him pitch in a baseball match in Nome. How he came to ingratiate himself into that contest I am unable to state. Nobody seemed able to tell me. All I found out about him was that he was one of three partners who had a valuable property somewhere up in the Jade Mountain region–not a prospect, but a real, bony-fido mine. Already they had received offers for the property, and any day they could sell out for a sum salubrious enough to make them all scandalously wealthy. They had entered into some sort of an agreement that bound them all to hold on until two of the three should vote to sell; Jones was tied up under this contraction.
“I had grown weary of the vain search for the root of all evil. For me that root has always been more slippery than a squirming eel; every time I thought I had it by the tail it would wriggle out ofmy eager clutch and get away. I longed for the fleshpots of my own native heath. Watching that ball game in Nome, my blood churned in my veins until it nearly turned to butter. Once more, in my well-fertilized fancy, I saw myself towering the country with my Wind Jammers; and, could I secure Jonesy for my star flinger, I knew I would be able to make my return engagement a scintillating and scandalous success. With him for a nucleus, I felt confident that I could assemble together a bunch of world beaters. I resolved to go after Jones. I went, without dalliance. I got him corralled in a private room and locked the door on him.
“Mate, I am a plain and simple soul, given not a jot or tittle to exaggeration, yet I am ready to affirm–I never swear; it’s profane–that I had the tussle of my life with Jones. Parenthetically speaking, we wrestled all over that room for about five solid hours. I had supplied myself with forty reams of writing paper, a bushel basket full of lead pencils, and two dictionaries. When I finally subdued Jones, I was using a stub of the last pencil in the basket, was on the concluding sheet of paper, had contracted writer’s cramp, and the dictionaries were mere torn and tattered wrecks. In the course of that argument, I am certain I wrote every word in the English language, besidescoining a few thousand of my own. I had practically exhausted every form of persuasion, and was on the verge of lying down and taking the count. Then, by the rarest chance, I hit upon the right thing. I wrote a paregoric upon the joys of traveling around over the United States from city to city, from town to town, of visiting every place of importance in the whole broad land, of meeting practically every living human being in the country who was alive and deserved to be met. Somehow that got him; I don’t know why, but it did. I saw his eyes gleam and his somber face change as he read that last wild stab of mine. It struck home; he agreed to go. I had conquered.
“Now, mark ye well, the amount of his salary had not a whit to do with it, and he entertained absolutely no ambish to become a baseball pitcher. He was compelled to leave his partners up there running the mine, and to rely upon their honesty to give him a square deal. You have been told how he promulgates around over every new place he visits and stares strangers out of countenance. Whether or not he’s otherwise wrong in his garret, he’s certainly ‘off’ on that stunt. That’s how I’m able to keep him on the parole of this club of mine.”
“In short, he’s a sort of monomaniac?”
“Perhaps that’s it.”
Lefty did a bit of thinking. “You’ve been touring the smaller cities and the towns in which an independent ball team would be most likely to draw. In the large cities of a Big League circuit there are thousands upon thousands of persons Jones has never met. He could work a whole season in such a circuit and continue to see hosts of strangers every time he visited any one of the cities included. Under such circumstances he would have the same incentive that he has now. If he can be induced to make the change, I’ll take a chance on him, and I’ll see that you are well paid to use your persuasive powers to lead him to accept my proposition.”
“But you stated that you had no legal authority to make such a deal.”
“I haven’t; but I am willing to take a chance, with the understanding that the matter is to be kept quiet until I shall be able to put through an arrangement that will make it impossible for any manager in organized ball to steal him away.”
Wiley shook his head. “I couldn’t get along without him, Lefty; he’s the mainsheet of the Wind Jammers. It would be like chucking the sextant and the compass overboard. We’d be adrift without any instrument to give us our position or anything to lay a course by.”
“If you don’t sell him to me, some manager is going to take him from you without handing you as much as a lonesome dollar in return. You can’t dodge the Big League scouts; it’s a wonder you’ve dodged them as long as you have. They’re bound to spot Jones and gobble him up. Do you prefer to sell him or to have him snatched?”
“What will you give for him?”
“Now you’re talking business. If I can put through the deal I’m figuring on, I’ll give you five hundred dollars, which, considering the conditions, is more than a generous price.”
“Five hundred dollars! Is there that much money to be found in one lump anywhere in the world?”
“I own some Blue Stockings stock, so you see I have a financial, as well as a sentimental, interest in the club. I’m going to fight hard to prevent it from being wrecked. As long as it can stay in the first division it will continue to be a money-maker, but already the impression has become current that the team is riddled, and the stock has slumped. There are evil forces at work. I don’t know the exact purpose these forces are aiming at, but I’m a pretty good guesser. The property is mighty valuable for some people to get hold of if they can get it cheap enough.”