CHAPTER XXXVIIOPENING THE SEASON
Slowly and leisurely the Hornets zigzagged their way northward, pausing here and there to play an exhibition game with some minor-league team, which was usually won by headwork and experience rather than by any extraordinary display of hitting. Even after the regular period of work at the training camp, the big fellows were not wielding the hickory with special effect.
They shaped rapidly into condition, however, and, when the time came to face some of the stronger teams of the minor-league clubs above what was once known as Mason and Dixon’s line, they did not disgrace themselves.
Finally, with much rejoicing, the metropolis was reached and the two squads reunited. Jim Brennan, his mind finally made up after weeks of close watching and weighing, proceeded to discard the few remaining recruits who, in his opinion, had shown themselves not quite ripe.
Then, with the squad trimmed down to the numberat which it would remain throughout the season, a week or more of hard, strenuous work ensued. A new infielder had to be broken in by his veteran comrades to the finer intricacies of the game. New signals were devised and perfected. Various pitchers were tried out, one after the other, in a full nine-inning game, and their condition studied by the astute manager. The batting order was decided on. In fact, everything was done which could be done in preparation for that great occasion to which many thousands of enthusiastic fans had been looking forward so ardently—opening day.
It came at last, with its tricky April breezes giving the lie to cloudless skies and brilliant yellow sunshine. There were the same joyous, pushing crowds, the same blaring bands. Some of the men had heard them many, many times before; but even they, though they might dissemble and pretend a careless nonchalance, were conscious, nevertheless, of that indescribable, irresistible thrill which they had always felt, and would continue to feel to the end of time—their time.
Their opponents were the Terriers, an organization of scrappy players who had fairly won their name. The fans got the worth of their money in a snappy game which was not decidedtill the ninth inning, and then only by an infielder’s error, which let in the single tally made that day.
The second game was lost by the Hornets; but they made up for it by having a streak of hitting in the third contest, and hammering out six runs to their opponents two.
It was during this last game that Brennan tried out his cub pitcher, Bert Elgin, for a couple of innings, and was so pleased with the showing made by the youngster that he determined to put him on the slab two days hence when they met the Blue Stockings for the first time that season.
“I’m going to take a chance with him, and do the unusual thing,” the manager confided to Jack Stillman while talking it over afterwards, as he had a way of doing with this particular reporter. “I need a youngster to work now and then until the old men get their wings well oiled up, and I’vegotto take the chance. I’m banking on Elgin.”
“Hum!” muttered Stillman.
The manager detected the doubt in Stillman’s mind. “You’ll have to allow that he’s shown form and class for a youngster.”
The newspaper man shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll admit that, all right,” he returned. “Still, that doesn’t prove him Cy Russell’s equal, for instance.”
“Did I say he was? All the same, I wouldn’t be surprised if he pushed Cy pretty hard one of these days. What you got against him, anyhow? He’s speedy, and he’s got a fine change of pace. He’s brainy, too, that boy.”
Stillman raised his eyebrows. “Well?” he drawled.
“Well, what?” retorted Brennan. “What more do you want than speed, and control, and brains?”
“Sand,” the reporter said succinctly.
The manager laughed. “I ain’t seen any signs of his lacking grit. He was up against some proposition to-day, too, and he pulled out. I guess I ain’t making any mistake trying him out against the Blue Stockings. He’s as good as any of Jack Kennedy’s string of cripples. He ain’t made of the same stuff as that quitter, Locke, I fired in Ashland.”
A faint touch of color tinged Stillman’s face.
“You’re right there, Brennan,” he said briefly. “There’s no comparison between them. Well we’ll see how he pans out on Saturday.”
As he turned away, a frown wrinkled his smooth forehead. He was thinking of Lefty, and wishing fervently that he might be there. What a chance it would have been! There wasn’t a question that, if he had remained with the Hornets, Locke mighthave had the opportunity which had been given to Elgin. Stillman knew baseball, and there was no shadowy doubt in his mind as to which of the two was the better man. He felt that Brennan could not have failed to see it, too, if he had not been tricked into turning the southpaw away.
However, that was all over and done with. Not only had Locke been fired, but at this moment Stillman had not the least idea where his friend was. He had heard nothing from him since the day they parted at the Ashland station. The pitcher had promised to write when he made good, but he had not written.
“Maybe he’s working for some fourth-rate bush league,” Stillman thought regretfully. “I can’t say I blame him for not wanting us to know. Maybe he hasn’t got any job yet. I’d give a farm to get that crook Elgin where I want him, and show Brennan what a mistake he’s made.”
Unfortunately the ex-sergeant at Ashland had, so far, failed signally in finding a single clew to the mystery, and Stillman was beginning to grow discouraged. It looked as if Bert Elgin had won out, in spite of the fact that truth and honor and decency were all opposed to him.