CHAPTER XLIITHE TRUTH AT LAST
Like a flash, thousands of fans were on their feet. The roar which reverberated back and forth in the great inclosure was enough to shake the row of eagles ornamenting the roof of the grandstand. Hagin was off like a rocket. Siegrist was not far behind. Fargo himself showed that backstopping was not his only strong point.
As for Lefty, after that first awful moment of sinking which had followed the fatal crack of leather meeting wood, he brought himself together with a jerk, and whirled round.
Rufe Hyland, in right field, had not wasted an instant. Covering the ground with tremendous strides, he scooped the ball cleanly, spun around, and threw even while still in motion. It was meant to be a straight throw to the plate, but in a second Lefty saw that the fielder’s forced turn had lost him every particle of body motion which might have helped out his arm, and knew the sphere would fall short.
Like a flash, the southpaw darted to one side, leaped into the air, and forked the ball with one hand. As he did so, Hagin, running like a racehorse, flung himself feet foremost to the ground, and slid over the plate.
Siegrist had raced down to second, and crossed the sack at full speed. When he saw Lefty intercept the ball and whirl toward third, he sought to turn back. Locke whipped the sphere straight into the hands of Pink Dalton, who was covering the second anchorage; and the latter, after jabbing it on to the lunging German, snapped it to first with a lightninglike motion, not even taking the time to straighten up.
It was one of the most surprising double plays ever seen on the New Grounds. Fargo, having rounded the sack and seen the ball speeding apparently toward the plate, naturally did not halt until he was nearly halfway to the second hassock. Even then he might have got back safely had it not been for the extraordinary accuracy of Dalton’s throw. As it was, the finish of the play was close. The keen-eyed umpire declared Fargo out.
The applause of the Hornets’ rooters suddenly ceased. It was followed by the cheers of their rivals. The home team had made a run, to be sure, but this abrupt and unexpected ending of theinning rather took the wind out of their sails. They gave vent to their annoyance by heaping abuse on the umpire.
As Lefty walked to the bench his eyes sought the face of his manager questioningly. He felt no doubt that only for the success of this last play he would have been taken out of the game at once. Only one hit had been made off him, to be sure, but he knew that a pitcher is frequently removed when the game is going wrong through no fault of his own. Jack Kennedy showed no such intention, however.
“That was a heady play of yours, Lefty,” he said. “I saw the ball would fall short the minute it left Hyland’s hand. If you hadn’t had your thinker working, we’d likely have had more than one tally to buck against.”
“It was Dalton who put a kibosh on them,” Locke returned. “That was some throw of his to first.”
“Sure. But you used your nut and made it possible. One minute, Grant. You’d better—”
His voice dropped to a whisper, and Lefty walked away, his face slightly flushed, his eyes bright. Jack Kennedy was a manager who never hesitated about blowing up his men, and he could do it in a cutting, caustic manner much morethorough than mere loud-mouthed ranting. He had also the much rarer trait of judicious praise, which was, perhaps, one of the reasons why he was so popular with his players.
The second inning presented no such spectacular features as had appeared in its predecessor. Elgin, cool, confident, and a little cocky, did not let a man pass second. The fans were beginning to yell rough pleasantries at him, and reporters who had been with the Hornets through the spring training harked back to the prophecies they had sent home regarding this youngster’s exceptional ability.
Locke, on the other hand, was touched up for two singles, and had men on first and third with only one out. One of these was caught while trying to steal second, and put out by Nelson’s beautiful throwing. The other was cantering toward the home plate, with the full expectation of scoring, when he discovered that the southpaw had reached forth a bare hand and plucked the batted ball out of the air, thus spoiling a base hit and ending the inning.
“Great work,” chuckled Jack Stillman, up at the reporters’ table, as he reached for his tobacco pouch.
“Great luck, I should say,” retorted the newspaperman next to him. “Looks to me like a fine case of horseshoes.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” put in the sporting editor of theBlade, who sat on Stillman’s other side. “The boy seems to have a little gray matter, and there’s a bulldog expression about his mouth and chin which makes me think he’ll stand the pace longer than this Elgin, who’s beginning to strut a little already. You saw quite a little of him down at Ashland, didn’t you, Jack?”
Stillman did not answer. With the leather pouch, he had pulled from his pocket a crumpled envelope bearing the postmark of that very Texas town. For a second he stared at it in a puzzled way. Then he remembered. The hotel clerk had handed it to him just as he was leaving for the game with a bunch of fellows, and he had put it aside, intending to read it later, only to forget its existence completely.
With a swift jerk of one finger, he tore the envelope open. There was a long letter in the cramped, laborious handwriting of William Bowers, the ex-sergeant, but that was not what his eyes were fixed on with such curious intentness. He had received many of those letters in the past month, and all to no purpose. What he had never had before was this inclosure, an affidavit bearingthe seal of a notary public and signed by one Edward Black, and several witnesses.
With a swift-drawn breath, Stillman fairly raced through the document, his face flushing, his eyes snapping, an expression of the most intense satisfaction swiftly overspreading his countenance.
“By Jove!” he breathed, when he had finished. “He’s got him at last! I knew that cur Elgin was responsible, and this proves it.”
He half rose from his seat, only to drop back into it again as he realized the impossibility of reaching Brennan now.
“Afterward will do as well,” he muttered. “If this doesn’t blow the scoundrel clean out of water, I’m a lobster!”