CHAPTER XLIIIA GAME WORTH WINNING
Locke had forgotten the blue parasol and its owner; he had no fleeting thought for Benton King; he was heart and soul in the game.
With one out, it seemed an excellent time for Kingsbridge to keep up the bunting, and attempt to score on it by the “squeeze,” so Bancroft’s infield drew closer and the outfielders quickly came in.
At the plate, Stark gave a secret signal, changing the style of play, and then he set the local crowd frantic by meeting Murtel’s high one on the trade mark. With the outfielders playing in their usual places, that line drive would have been good for a clean single, but while they were chasing it down, Larry dug all the way round to third, Oulds and Labelle romping over the rubber with the runs that tied the score.
The whole Kingsbridge team was laughing, now, while Murtel, enraged over being outguessed and deceived, was almost frenzied.
“It’s a great top piece you have, Lefty, old pal,” cried Larry Stark. “That was the trick to get ’em going. Look at Pinwheel champ the bit.”
But Hutchinson was back on the bench now, and he directed Crandall to hit the ball out. Reddy, trying to respond manfully, boosted an infield fly, and Stark was forced to remain on the sack while it was caught. Had Anastace, coming next, taken a daring chance and bunted, it is possible that the Bullies might have been thrown into confusion again; but he had orders from Hutchinson to hit, and in trying to do so he succumbed to Murtel’s strategy, expiring in the box.
“Oh, this is some game, believe me!” shouted a Kingsbridger. “Hold ’em where they are, Lefty. You’ve got the stuff to do it. We depend on you.”
The Bancrofters who had wagered money on the tussle were not as cocksure as they had been, and doubtless more than one, Manager Riley included, regretted that matters had not been privately arranged in advance so that it would not be necessary to rely almost wholly on the prowess their new left-handed pitcher.
Surely their regrets became still more acute when, in the seventh, Locke showed no let-up in form, and was not even ruffled when McGovernreached first on an infield error, the other three batters to face him going the way of all flesh.
“Oh, you Lefty!” was once more the rejoicing cry of the palpitating Kingsbridgers.
Murtel came back with a shut-out, although Hinkey led off with a scratch hit.
“Hold ’em, Lefty—hold ’em!” was the beseeching cry.
Bangs and Murtel faded like morning dew before a burning sun, but Harney got into a speedy one and banged it for two hassocks, setting the shaking Bancrofters off again in a tremendous uproar. Nevertheless, the lucky batter remained at second, where Stark and Labelle kept him dancing back and forth while Locke took Trollop’s measure and put him away until the next game should be played.
With no one batting ahead of him, Locke advanced to the pan in the last of the eighth without instructions. The first ball was too close, but the second came slanting over, and he bunted. Again it was the unexpected, and never had a prettier bunt been pulled off. Nevertheless, it was only Tom’s wonderful knack of starting at high speed with the first jump and covering the ground like a streak that enabled him to reach the sack a gasping breath ahead of the ball.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.
The Bullies started to kick, nearly every man on the team taking part in it. The crowd hooted and hissed, but it was only the nerve of the umpire in pulling his watch which finally sent the Bancroft players, growling, back to their positions. There was so much money wagered on the game that they could not afford to lose it through forfeiture; but henceforth they badgered the umpire on almost every decision, even scoffing when he declared in their favor.
Labelle sacrificed Locke to second. Stark, thirsting for a hit, hoisted a fly to center. Then, just as the visitors were breathing easier, Crandall smashed a drive into right field.
Locke was on the way to third even before bat and ball met. Sockamore, coaching, seeing Tom coming like the wind, took a desperate chance, and, with a furious flourish of his arms, signaled for him to keep on. Out in right field Mace got the sphere and poised himself for a throw to the pan.
There was a choking hush. Staring, breathless, suffering with suspense, the watchers waited.
“Slide!” yelled Sockamore, with a shriek like the blast of a locomotive whistle.
Spikes first, Locke slid.The whistling ball spanked into Bangs’ clutches and he lunged tomake the tag. But Tom’s feet had slipped across the rubber, and the downward motion of the umpire’s open, outspread hand declared him safe.
Again the Bullies protested, and again the umpire was compelled to produce his watch. With difficulty the excited crowd was kept off the field.
Laughing, Stark had helped Locke to rise, and made a show of brushing some of the dust from him.
“It’s your game that wins to-day, if you can hold them down now,” declared Larry. “It was bunting when they weren’t expecting it that did the trick. Oh, say, there’ll be some sore heads in Bancroft to-night!”
Henry Cope came bursting out of the crowd back of the bench to shake hands with Locke.
“Sufferin’ Moses, whut a game!” he exclaimed. “If I ain’t under the doctor’s care ter-morrer it’ll be queer. Keep ’em right where they be, an’ we’ve won.”
“Lots of good that will do us when the game is counted out of the series,” sneered Hutchinson.
“Even if they count it out,” returned the grocer, “folks round this town’re goin’ to have a heap o’ Bancroft’s money t’ spend.”
Reddy Crandall did not score. He had donehis part well, and he uttered no complaint when Anastace failed to hit.
The Bullies had not given up. Savage, sarcastic, insolent, they fought it out in the first of the ninth, bearing themselves, until the last man was down, as if they still believed they would win. Locke, however, had them at his mercy, refusing to prolong the agony by letting a hitter reach first.
With some difficulty he fought off the delighted Kingsbridgers who swarmed, cheering, around him, and would have lifted him to their shoulders. When he finally managed to break clear of the throng he thought suddenly of Janet, and looked round for her.
Benton King was driving toward the gate by which teams and autos were admitted to the field. She had lowered her parasol, and, before disappearing through the gate, she turned to gaze backward, as if looking for some one in the midst of the still-cheering crowd that covered the diamond.