CHAPTER XXVIIIA BAD BEGINNING
As the Broncs spread out on the field for preliminary practice, their opponents looked them over with undisguised interest. They saw nine husky, sunbrowned fellows, quick, lithe, and snappy in their movements, who scooped up grounders, smothered flies, and lined the ball from one to another without any bungling, hesitation or wooden headwork. They had been playing all winter in the Southern States, and certainly showed the fact in their efficiency and teamwork. They were not really Texans, although posing as such, but, instead, players gathered from various parts of the country.
“Looks like a pretty swift crowd,” Al Ogan remarked to Lefty. “If any one should ask me, I’d say we had our work cut out for us.”
Locke smiled faintly.
“I reckon we can handle them,” he returned. “With Fargo and Pollock in the infield and Hagin at center, I’m not worrying. Each one of those men hit over three hundred last season.”
“Exactly,” the cub captain said significantly, “but that was last season. Their averages have been pretty punk this spring. I’m not so sure that the team is strengthened a whole lot by running them in at the last minute.”
“Personally, I’m mighty glad to have Fargo behind the pan,” said Lefty. “Whalen isn’t bad, but there’s not another backstop in the country who can teach Buck anything. Well, there goes the umpire. It’s up to us to show these bucking broncs that they’re not the whole shooting match.”
Though he spoke confidently, Lefty did not feel quite as nonchalant and undisturbed as he pretended to be.
The Hornets had the field, and it was up to their pitcher to keep the heavy hitters, who would almost certainly head their opponents’ batting list, from doing too much damage before he had discovered the strength and weakness of each man, and could govern himself accordingly.
Lefty knew that Fargo would help him out to the best of his ability, but even the experienced backstop could not be counted on to gauge accurately the batting capabilities of men he had never set eyes on before. There was nothing to do but proceed cautiously, sounding the batters as besthe could and relying on his support to take care of the hits.
The first man up was “Cinch” Brown, one of the Texan outfielders, a tall, rangy fellow with a hawklike nose and a pair of keen, dark eyes which seemed to miss nothing. For a second the southpaw hesitated, trying to fathom just what sort of a ball would be “meat” to this Southerner.
Something—intuition, perhaps—gave Lefty the notion that a low, straight one, close to the knees, would be less palatable than any other, and his judgment was strengthened when Fargo crouched behind the pan and made a signal beneath his huge mitt.
Without delay, the southpaw put it over, straight, swift, and cutting the near corner just above the batter’s knees—and Brown lashed it out as if he preferred that kind of a ball to any other.
But for the fast fielding of Bill Hagin, the hit would have been good for two cushions. The Big League man, however, got after the ball in splendid style, and made a running, one-handed stop, which prevented the sphere from getting away into the remote distance of center field.
“That’s the stuff, Cinch!” came in a harsh voice from a little to the left of the plate. “That’s the way to start her off. This kid’s easy fruit.We’ll have him going. Smash it out, Bull; you can do it.”
There was an odd, unpleasant quality to the voice which made Lefty dislike it intuitively. He cast a swift, curious glance in that direction, and saw, as he had surmised, that it came from the notorious Zack Schaeffer. The Texan twirler stood with his hands on his hips, his powerful legs spread wide apart. When his eyes met Lefty’s, a slight sneer curved his full red lips, and, with an unpleasant laugh, he turned to say something to the man near him.
That sort of thing did not bother the southpaw in the least. With an inward determination to settle Schaeffer’s hash if he possibly could when the latter came to the bat, he turned his attention to Bull Kenny, the backstop of the Broncs.
The latter looked dangerous as he squared himself at the plate, poising his bat over his shoulder. He was a big, square-jawed, heavily built fellow, and wielded a massive club. Ordinarily Locke would have looked for a bunt, but it was evident from the way he held himself that Kenny had no intention of sacrificing.
He quite ignored a coaxer which Lefty tried him with, and the latter, taking a signal from Fargo, sent over a whistling high inshoot.
Kenny smashed it full and fair, driving it out on a line over the head of Sandy Rollins at second. Then he dug his spikes into the ground, and went flying down the line to first at a speed which showed that hitting was not his only accomplishment.
As before, it was Hagin who raced forward, scooped up the ball on the run, and lined it to second. Brown had taken a fair lead, however, and made the second sack by a hair’s breadth, amid a cloud of dust.
“Got ’em going, boys!” yelled Schaeffer. “They’re e-easy. Now, Pete, you know what to do.”
Nevens, third baseman, evidently did. He was prepared to sacrifice, but Locke kept the ball high so that it was difficult for him to bunt effectively. He was finally forced to hit, and hit he did, though not safely. Nevertheless, he pounded the ball into the diamond, and the two runners advanced, while he was thrown out at first.
“That’s the stuff,” laughed Schaeffer, as he stepped out with his bat. “Here’s where we pull the Hornet’s stinger.”
He had a peculiar swaggering gait, and carried himself in a manner which showed how thoroughly he appreciated his own ability. Lefty felt an intensedesire to fan the fellow, who seemed so cocksure of himself. He was glancing at Fargo, ready to take the signal, when he saw that Schaeffer had crowded up to the plate, his toes well over the box line.
“Get back,” Locke said sharply.
“Aw, pitch the ball!” snapped Schaeffer. “What’s bitin’ you?”
“You’re out of your box,” declared Lefty. “I’m liable to hit you.”
“I’ll take a chance, Willie,” the Texan retorted offensively. “I ain’t seen you pass up anything very dangerous so far.”
Nevertheless, at the umpire’s command, he edged back grudgingly, but persisted in keeping a bit of his toes over the line.
“The close ones for him,” Lefty decided swiftly. “With that reach of his, he can hit anything a foot outside the pan.”
He therefore shook his head when Fargo signaled. When the big backstop changed the sign, Lefty, after a glance at the base runners, used a short, swift delivery, and passed up an inshoot, intending to keep the ball close to the knuckles of the batter.
Schaeffer stepped in, and was unable to dodge that shoot. It caught him glancingly, high up onthe body, and made him stagger a bit. Then, growling a few choice epithets, he obeyed the umpire’s signal to take his base.
“That man stepped out of his box, Mr. Umpire,” Fargo protested. “He wouldn’t have been hit if he’d kept his place.”
“Aw, cut that out!” snarled Schaeffer, limping in an exaggerated manner. “I was hit a-purpose. Just wait, my young squab,” he added out of the corner of his mouth to Lefty. “I’ll getyou.”
The umpire refused to reverse his decision.
As he took the ball from Fargo, Lefty’s blood was tingling, and his face flushed. He managed to keep a grip on his temper, however. With the bases full and only one out, coolness was at a premium.