CHAPTER XXXIXBANCROFT COMES TO CONQUER
Never before, even though it was the middle of the week, had such a crowd of Bancroft fans accompanied the team to a neighboring town. When the train stopped they began hopping off the cars, like fleas from the back of a cat to which insect powder has been applied, and in a few moments the station platform was packed with them, laughing, joking, confident of what the afternoon held in store.
In short order they swarmed into every restaurant in town. Having satisfied their hunger, they went forth into the streets of Kingsbridge to wait for the hour of the game, some of them to seek citizens who were willing to back the local team with real money.
But Fancy Dyke and two associates, provided with rolls of the “long green,” had struck Kingsbridge by an earlier train and raked the place for bets with a fine-tooth comb. Kingsbridgers who had money they were willing to risk sought the assurance of Henry Cope that Tom Locke wouldpitch; and, with this guarantee, they proceeded to “take a chance.”
Before the gates opened that afternoon, more money had been posted than ever before on a single game in the Northern League. For, while the milltown people had heard that the Bullies would present a new left-handed slabman, the promise that Locke would do the tossing for the Kinks left them still with a feeling of assurance undisturbed by the least uncertainty.
Not that they believed there was no chance of losing, but their faith in Lefty was so great that it seemed at least a five-to-one shot in Kingsbridge’s favor; and a man who would “squeeze his roll” with such an opportunity staring him in the face certainly lacked sporting blood.
That afternoon, as the hour of the game drew on, only the unyielding strictness of foremen and bosses kept the mills running, the workmen almost threatening to desert in a body. Some of them slipped away, even though they knew they were inviting discharge by doing so.
Naturally, the curiosity to see Bancroft’s new pitcher was very great, and there was a mighty craning of necks on the bleachers and in the stand when the visitors appeared for practice.
The man whose name had been given as Craddockwas easily seen, being over six feet in height, and having amazingly long arms and legs; in fact, he seemed to be nearly all arms and legs. He was not a handsome person, with a hatchet face and a huge beak of a nose, while his ears stood out like fans on either side of his long, narrow head. He carried his shoulders hunched forward, and walked with a queer bobbing movement of the knees, a sort of buckling with each step. In more ways than one his appearance was suggestive of a crane.
Craddock warmed up without letting himself loose at all, giving the eager watchers no chance to get an idea of his capability by anything in that preliminary performance.
With the appearance of the home team, Hutchinson sprang a surprise. A new man came on the field with them, a bronzed, husky, rawboned man, who quickly set the crowd to speculating as to his identity. When the local pitchers began limbering their wings, one question was quickly answered; for when the stranger commenced to warm up, also, it was seen that he was a pitcher; and many a Kingsbridger hoped he would prove to be better than either Deever or Skillings.
Mike Riley, smoking industriously, stood around with his hands in his pockets, watching his players in a self-satisfied manner. His bearing was morethan encouraging for those who had journeyed thirty miles to see the Bullies win. After a time, he walked over and spoke to Hutchinson. They talked earnestly for several minutes, Riley making gestures with his clenched fist and nodding his head savagely, while Hutch shrugged his shoulders repeatedly.
When the Kingsbridge manager turned toward the local bench, he found Henry Cope standing near it.
“Well,” said the grocer, “what did old Riley have t’ say? Tried ter browbeat ye, didn’t he?”
“Oh,” said Hutchinson, “he reasserted his claim to Hazelton, and said we’d surely lose this game out of the count if we persisted in pitching the man. You can see, Cope, that it’s no bluff; the meeting is called for to-morrow night. I’ve got Ringling, a new pitcher, here, and he’s clever. Don’t you think we’d better use him?”
“I notified you,” said the grocer irritably, “that Locke would pitch this game, and he’ll pitch it. Put him in.”
“All right,” growled Hutchinson, in exasperation, “have your own way.” As he sat down on the bench, he added to himself: “You pig-headed old fool!”
So it was Locke who went on the slab when theumpire called “play,” and Bancroft promptly sent Harney jogging forth to the pan with his pet bat on his shoulder. Tom was given a rousing cheer by his admirers.
“You know what to do to ’em, Lefty,” yelled a man on the bleachers. “You’re the boy fer us. We’re backin’ you.”
Harney drove his spikes into the dry ground and squared himself, his bat held high and ready. His posture was that of a man who welcomed speed, and rather preferred that the ball should be up around his shoulders; therefore, Locke opened with one across his knees on the inside corner. True, Harney hit it promptly, but he only batted a weak grounder into the diamond, and Labelle, grabbing it quickly, whipped him out at first by a wide margin.
“Just as easy as ever!” whooped a delighted Kingsbridger. “Pick off the next one, Tommy, old top.”
Trollop held his bat low, so Locke kept the ball high and close, causing it to jump, and the Bancroft center fielder slashed at three without making even a foul.
“Some pitchin’, Lefty, some pitchin’!” was the cry.
Wop Grady, his face knotted and puckered, asusual, slammed at the first one handed him, and hoisted a high foul, which Oulds smothered close to the wire netting that protected the people in the stand; and Kingsbridge gave Locke a cheer that resembled a cowboy yell more than anything else.
Every eye seemed to be turned on Bancroft’s new pitcher as he teetered awkwardly out upon the diamond. The ball was thrown to him, and he whipped three or four scorchers to Harney, at first, before Labelle was ready to bat; but not until he toed the slab to pitch to the batter did he put his remarkable delivery on exhibition.
Suddenly he swung far backward, pivoting on his left foot and shooting his right arm and right leg into the air, while his left hand carried the ball far, far over until it seemed that he was trying to touch the ground with it. Up he came and forward on to his right foot, his pitching hand sweeping through the air to send the ball burning across a corner of the pan.
“Nom de tonnerre!” gasped Labelle, his eyes bulging, his bat hanging poised.
“Strike!” cried the umpire.