CHAPTER XXXTHE TRICKY TWIRLER
Lefty approached the bench in a very dubious state of mind. He was not at all sure that this first inning might not prove his last, and when he saw Ogan hurry up to the manager and say something in a low tone of voice, he fully expected to be told that he might ornament the bench for the remainder of the game.
He tried to gain some idea of what was passing through Brennan’s mind by watching his face, but swiftly came to the conclusion that this was hopeless. A mask of carved and painted wood could not have been more impassive. The manager listened to what the cub captain had to say, without moving a muscle of his face. Then he spoke a few rapid sentences, and Ogan turned away with a nod.
“You’re up, Buck,” he said shortly. “Start us off with a good one, old fellow.”
Fargo grinned, sauntered to the plate, and tapped the rubber indolently with his war club. Then he stood back, when Schaeffer, who seemedto have been unnecessarily slow in starting, requested permission to limber his wing a bit. The reason for this was soon apparent. The first ball fairly made the air smoke, and it cut the plate in half. The next was quite as speedy, but took a sharp hop as it neared the pan. The third was a whizzing curve.
“Showing off,” Fargo commented, as if to himself, but in a voice which penetrated to Schaeffer’s ears. “I thought that was it.”
Then he stepped into the box again, smiling at the Texan twirler in a manner which seemed to aggravate that individual not a little.
With a sneering uptilt at the corners of his mouth, the slab man took Kenny’s signal and whipped the ball over with terrific speed. The speed was so great, in fact, that Fargo, in spite of the exhibition he had witnessed a moment before, struck a bit too late.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” shouted Pete Nevens from third. “He didn’t know it went by, Zack, old Bronc!”
“Give him another sample,” urged the player on first.
“Mebbe you’d like him to toss you one,” suggested Kenny. “He’s got a nice little lob ball that mebbe you can hit.”
Buck Fargo simply smiled that wide smile of his, and waited quietly, his eye on Schaeffer.
“Look out!” shouted the pitcher, as the ball left his fingers the second time.
Fargo dodged instinctively, for the horsehide had started straight at him with burning speed. Only by bending swiftly and holding his bat far over the plate did he escape being hit.
This was one of Schaeffer’s little tricks to disturb the nerve of a batsman. With the finest sort of control, he could usually put the ball wherever he desired, and he chose on this occasion to send it as close to Fargo as possible. He shook his head with an air of relief as if he had feared he might hit the backstop, and was glad he had not.
As he straightened up, Fargo made no comment. He still smiled a little, but a close observer would have noticed that his jaw was a bit firmer and his lids slightly more drooping. If Schaeffer had only stopped to think, he might have realized how many, many times this Big League player had faced just such tricky pitchers before, and how perfectly he must have learned how to treat them.
This thought did not come to him, however. Balancing himself on his toes, he took a wide swing of his arm for speed, and lined the ball over. It seemed to start exactly as the last one had, but,as Fargo quite expected, it took such a sharp shoot that it cut the plate almost in twain.
The big backstop was ready for it. He met it directly over the pan, and sent it whistling above the head of the Texan first baseman, who leaped desperately and in vain for it.
By rapid work, the right fielder got the ball in time to cut the hit down to a single.
Bill Hagin stepped blithely to the pan, and Fargo danced away from first.
The Hornet backstop was a fast man on the paths. To play for Jim Brennan a single season a man had to be that, and Fargo had been three years with the organization. Quick as a cat on his feet, he seemed to know by intuition just when the pitcher meant to deliver the ball to the batsman. For this reason he was able to get under headway in base stealing even before the horsehide left the pitcher’s fingers. Although Schaeffer drove him back several times, Fargo got his start on the first ball handed up to Hagin, and was off like a racer. Kenny made a fine throw the length of the diamond, but it was a fraction of a second too slow.
Warned by the disastrous results of the last attempt, Schaeffer made no effort to intimidate the second batter. Hagin had the look of a man who eats speed, and his record quite bore out thatimpression. The Texan worked so carefully that he succeeded in getting two strikes on the outfielder, but this seemed simply to put the latter on his mettle. He finally placed his bat against the horsehide with precision and force for a long drive into deep center, which the fielder missed by less than a foot.
Hagin was ready to take second on the throw-in, while Fargo, hitting the high spots, rounded third, and was urged home by the coacher. The ball was sent to second, and Hagin was driven back to the first station.
“Here’s where we tie up!” cried Ogan jubilantly. “Here’s where we take the lead! Smash her out, Sandy.”
Rollins, second baseman, stepped up with the expression of one who has every intention of making connections with the horsehide. Schaeffer had recovered from his momentary annoyance, and was on the job. He pulled the batter with the first ball pitched, which curved beyond Rollins’ reach. Then came a foul tip, that counted as a strike, and Sandy flushed a little as he stepped into the box again.
“This time he’ll send over a hummer,” he thought, taking a fresh grip on his stick.
Schaeffer went through the movements whichseemed to indicate that he was going to whip the ball over with terrific speed, but now, instead of a scorcher, he sent in a ball that seemed to hang and drag in the air, and Rollins struck too soon.
“You’re out!” said the umpire.
“That’s the goods, Zack!” laughed Kenny, pounding his mitt. “They can’t touch you. Put this sorrel-top in cold storage for me.”
“Only one down!” cried Fargo. “Show this bunch of panhandlers what you can do when you try, Red.”
Pollock stepped briskly to the plate, waited for a ball which looked good to him, and smashed it out for a single.
Hagin, fleet as the wind, had been held at second. When Tom Burley came up, determined to atone for his fielding error, the runner took advantage of the catcher’s fumble of the first pitch, pilfering third for all of the backstop’s quick recovery and fine throw to the sack.
Burley evidently wanted to bunt, but Schaeffer kept the ball too high, finally forcing the batter into popping a weak infield fly, which was smothered with ease.
“It’s up to you, old man,” Fargo said, in a low tone, as Lefty passed him. “We’ve got to tie up the score, anyhow.”
As Lefty faced the Texas twirler, the latter’s lip curled in that irritating sneer, and he promptly returned to his tactics of trying to get the batter’s nerve. Unfortunately for him, Locke did not rattle. He ducked a couple of whizzers sent straight at him, and then, when Schaeffer handed up his famous inshoot, he lashed a sharp grounder into the diamond, which smacked the pitcher squarely on the instep.
There was a roar of pain, followed by a volley of furious language from Schaeffer. Then, recovering himself, he dove after the ball, secured it, and lined it home.
It is probable that he had lost his head for an instant. Had he remembered that two men were out, he might have thrown to first and stopped the score; for he could have caught Lefty. Apparently he seemed to think that the only way to stop it was to put the ball to the plate.
Bill Hagin had not been napping, however. At the first crack of leather meeting wood, he shot like a rocket toward home, slid feet foremost, and Kenny got the ball on him only when his spikes were shining above the platter.
In his rage Schaeffer poured forth a volley of blackguarding language which got the umpire after him, and he might have been put out of thegame had not his backstop hustled out into the diamond and grabbed him by the arm.
“Don’t be a fool, Zack!” he snapped. “Keep your trap shut, or you’ll be canned. Can you go ahead with the game?”
The twirler, managing to choke down his wrath, limped around the slab a few times, and then toed the rubber again. He was still furious, however, and Al Ogan landed on the first ball for a line-drive over the head of the shortstop. But for a phenomenal catch by Cinch Brown the Hornets might have scored more tallies.
As Lefty came in from the field, he passed close to the disgruntled pitcher, and if looks could kill he would have been finished then and there.
“I’ll get you yet, you swelled-headed squirt!” Schaeffer hissed. “Wait, that’s all—just wait!”
Locke smiled blandly. “Quit your beefing,” he advised. “You’re making everybody tired.”