CHAPTER XIALL IN
When Lefty came to himself the electric lights were still blazing in sickly opposition to the bright sunshine which poured through the two windows. For a moment or two he lay wondering what had happened and why he was stretched out on the floor, fully dressed. Then the dull, throbbing pain in his head brought him to a sitting posture, with a groan.
He glanced at the bed and saw that it was untouched. He looked up dazedly at the cluster of lights, then down at his rumpled shirtfront. The glitter of his gold fob caught his eye, and, with an effort, he pulled out his watch.
“Twenty-five minutes to eight,” he muttered. “Time I was getting—”
He broke off abruptly and drew his breath with a swift intake as he remembered. The game was to begin at eight-thirty. He was to pitch for the Yannigans!
Staggering to his feet, he went over to the washstandand plunged his face into a hurriedly drawn bowl of water. Nothing had ever felt so good before. He dashed it on his hair, regardless of the streams running over his shirtfront. Again and again he dropped his face back into the grateful, cooling contents of the bowl before he finally reached for a rough towel.
He remembered everything now—the absence of Brennan, the adjournment to Hagin’s room, the cards, the smoke, the drinks, and—last of all—that horrible attack which had come upon him.
What had brought it about? It couldn’t have been the beer. That was wretched stuff, to be sure, but a single glass of it would hardly produce such an effect. He had thrown his coat hastily to one side and was ripping the collar from his neck when suddenly he stopped abruptly.
“Doped!” he exclaimed, aloud.
It was an almost incredible supposition, but it explained everything perfectly. No single glass of ordinary beer could have the effect of that one upon a man in Lefty’s splendid physical condition, and there was the odd, repulsive flavor which he had set down to the poor quality of the brew.
But who would do such a thing—and why? Locke’s first thought was of Bert Elgin, but the fellow had not even been in the room. Hagin hadno motive—or, so far as he knew, any opportunity. Who else, then, could have been responsible?
The answer did not come readily, for Lefty’s mind was working only by fits and starts as he flung his clothes right and left, threw a dressing gown over his shoulders, and darted down the hall to the shower which Brennan had caused to be put in for the benefit of his men. The tingling reaction of his blood under the icy spray meant much more to him than breakfast, for an intolerable lassitude seemed to grip his limbs, while the very thought of food was almost nauseating.
Lingering under the shower as long as he dared, he dashed back to his room and began to drag on his baseball clothes. It was not until he was buckling his belt, however, that the significance of Buck Fargo’s remark when Lefty refused the second glass of beer came to him: “I reckon youhavehad enough.” Why had he said that? Was it because he knew that the first glass was quite sufficient to do the business? There had been more to the big backstop’s tone, somehow, than just plain, casual agreement.
“Rot!” snapped Locke, snatching up cap and glove and making for the door. “I’m loony! He hasn’t a single motive, and, besides, he’s not the sort of chap who’d do a dirty thing like that.”
Nevertheless, the thought returned to torment him at odd moments during the hasty choking down of a little breakfast, followed by the jog out to the field—and afterward. It was the bitter disappointment and humiliation of that afterward, which Lefty never forgot.
The cubs were in high spirits, eager for the chance to win their spurs. As he watched their antics on the way out to the park, Lefty felt a pang of envy. He would have given anything to have that same snap and ginger, instead of feeling the lassitude and weariness which gripped him.
Several of his teammates asked if he wasn’t feeling well, but he forced a laugh, and put them off. He would rather have died than give up his place to Bert Elgin. When the time came for him to go into the box surely he would brace up and be more himself.
Halfway out to the field Andy Whalen, the cub catcher, came up, and they discussed briefly the signals which had been talked over the night before. Lefty wished desperately that he had gone off to bed directly afterward, instead of strolling into the pool room and allowing himself to be drawn into that game in Hagin’s room.
Regrets were unavailing, however. Though some one had given him the double cross, Leftyrealized that he alone was to blame for making the opportunity. Then and there he registered a silent vow that nothing under heaven should ever again induce him to deviate a hair’s breadth from his manager’s rules of training. And then he wondered whether that resolution had been made too late.
The teams had ten minutes’ practice in which to warm up; then the coin was tossed. The Yannigans won, and, choosing the field, romped gayly out to their positions, tossing up gloves, yelling persiflage at one another, and altogether behaving coltishly.
Lefty was with them, but not of them. He had never in his life felt in poorer condition for pitching. His head ached, and he was as tired and drooping as if he had not slept in forty-eight hours. But he could not bring himself to beg off, and there was no other way out. He caught the ball from Brennan, who acted as umpire, shot a swift, appraising glance at the manager’s impenetrable face, and then took the signal from Whalen.