CHAPTER XIVAFTER THE GAME
The indescribable uproar which greeted the strike-out that settled the game prevented Hoover’s words from reaching Locke’s ears, but the glare in his eyes, the expression of his face, and the movement of his lips told well enough what he said. The triumphant pitcher barely avoided the whistling bat by an agile side spring. In another instant, his face went white; he was coming at Hoover with a rush.
Tense with excitement, Janet Harting saw it all; she saw the steady, youthful, almost boyish, Kingsbridge pitcher fool the Caliban-faced Bully for the final fruitless slash which settled the game, two to nothing, in the home team’s favor; saw Hoover, snarling, hurl the bat; and then beheld a swirling rush of shouting, wrathy human beings, who smashed the restraining rails in front of the bleachers, and poured upon the field like a spring flood from a bursted reservoir.
“I think,” said Benton King, gathering thereins, “that it is time for me to take you away from here, Janet.”
Trembling, she grasped his arm. “No, no!” she cried. “What are they going to do? That wretch threw his bat at—at Lefty.”
“Yes; and he’ll get his, if his friends don’t look out for him well. Locke has got all Kingsbridge behind him, and they’re a tough bunch when they get good and mad. There’s likely to be some broken heads.”
“Oh, wait a moment!” she entreated. “Look! They’re trying to hold the crowd off, and I believe Lefty is helping them.”
Out there on the diamond, raging, frothing men were shaking their fists at the offending pitcher; while others, including a number of Kingsbridge players, having packed themselves round the threatened man, were holding the hot-heads back by main force. And it was true that Tom Locke was one of those who sought to protect Jock Hoover from the wolfish mob.
“Stop!” his voice rang out, clear and distinct. “Keep back! The trouble is between that man and me. We’ll settle it.”
“Let-a me git at-a him!” raged an Italian, the same who had amused the crowd after the striking out of Mace in the first inning, by asking whatwas the matter with Lefty. “He throw-a da bat! I knock-a da block off-a da sneak-a!”
His cigar gone, his hat smashed, his collar torn awry, Mike Riley succeeded in reaching Hoover.
“You infernal idiot!” he puffed. “Didn’t you know better? What made ye do it?”
“Bah!” retorted Jock with contempt and courage worthy of a better cause. “These barking curs won’t do anything. Give me a show, and I’ll break that left-handed dub’s face. He hasn’t got the courage to give me an opportunity right now—here. He’s a——” The concluding epithet was a repetition of the insult he had hurled at Locke along with the bat.
“No man can swallow that!” muttered Larry Stark. “Somebody must fight that miserable rowdy.”
“Give me the chance,” said Tom Locke, “and give him the same even show, without interference. Let the crowd keep back.” They marveled at his calmness.
Some of Hoover’s friends sought to rush him off, against his will, and the vociferous, twisting, lunging mass of humanity swept over to one side of the diamond, where Bent King had his hands full in the task of restraining his fretting span from plunging forward and trampling some ofthem. King had listened to Janet’s appeal, and dallied a few moments too long; now they were caught in the midst of the mob that packed close on all sides. Two men, taking note of his difficulty, grasped the horses by the bits; but the crowd, seemingly deaf and oblivious to everything except the imminent fist fight, could not be induced to make way.
“I’m sorry, Janet,” said the lumberman’s son. “This is no place for you. I was a fool to wait a minute when the trouble began.”
“Never mind,” she returned, her voice quivering a little, her face quite colorless. “I—I want to see. It isn’t right for them to fight; it isn’t fair. Lefty can’t be a match for that ruffian. Why don’t they stop it?”
Not much time was wasted in preparation when it was understood that Locke was ready to meet his challenger. Members of the two teams began pushing the crowd back to make room, begging them to give the men a chance, and a fifteen-foot space was finally cleared. Eager spectators climbed upon the shoulders of those in front of them; the bleachers, at one end, were loaded to the cracking point with human beings; and every stout limb of a near-by tree quickly bore human fruit.
Bareheaded, the men met in the center of the cleared space. Hoover came with a rush, and Locke was not dilatory. Plainly the Bully weighed ten or fifteen pounds more than his slender antagonist, and many a sympathizer with the youth feared the match must prove to be pitifully one-sided.
Jock led, right and left; but the youngster parried, blocked, and countered like lightning, closing in without hesitation. His jaw was set, and he was still cool, while the Bancrofter blazed with all the fury of a conflagration.
The sound of thudding blows caused Janet Harting to drop her parasol, which she had closed; her hands went up to her heart, and her lips were parted that she might breathe, the open air seeming close and smothery.