LEFTY O’ THE BIG LEAGUE

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of “Lefty o’ the Bush,” “Lefty o’ the Blue Stockings,” “Lefty o’ the Training Camp.”

ILLUSTRATED

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1914, by GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

CHAPTER I GETTING IN BAD

“Say, fellows!” sang out Red Pollock, the snappy little shortstop of the famous Hornets. “Look who’s here!” There was a general turning of heads and craning of necks on the part of three or four players waiting their chance to wield the willow in batting practice.

“Another Yannigan,” groaned Cy Russell, star pitcher of the organization. “The woods is full of ’em.”

“He don’t look much to me, neither,” stated big Buck Fargo critically. “Say, Jim, who is it, an’ where’d you root it out?”

Brennan, the short, stocky, belligerent-looking manager of the Big League team, did not answer. With his bushy eyebrows drawn down in a frown over his deep-set eyes, he was staring at the young[12] fellow threading his way through the groups of players scattered about the field at all kinds of training work. The stranger wore a soiled and faded gray uniform, upon the shirt of which was sewn a letter K, and dangled a worn leather glove by one finger. His cap, pushed back on a mane of heavy, dark-brown hair, revealed a clean-cut, pleasant face, dominated by a pair of keen brown eyes, a firm chin, and sensitive mouth.

As he took in these details Brennan’s scowl deepened and his bulldog chin protruded dangerously. Catching sight of his face, Pollock grinned and nudged the man nearest him. “Look at the old man,” he whispered. “Something doing.”

The stranger came on without a pause, and, a moment or two later, stopped before the manager. His lips were pressed tightly together, but otherwise his face was perfectly composed. “I’ve come to report, sir,” he said quietly.

The manager’s eyes narrowed. Several things had been fretting him all morning, and his temper was not even at its uncertain best. “Indeed!” he sneered. “And who are you?”

“Locke—Lefty Locke.”

“Never heard the name before,” retorted Brennan shortly.

[13]

For an instant the newcomer seemed taken aback. A faint touch of color came into his cheeks, and he looked at the manager as if wondering whether he could possibly be in earnest.

“I—thought—Mr. Toler had written you,” he stammered. “He—said he was going to.”

Brennan’s eyes flashed. “Well, he didn’t,” he snapped. “Where’d you come from? What’s your record?”

“I pitched last season with the Kingsbridge team of the Northern League,” Locke said briefly.

“A twirler!” exclaimed the manager. “Well, I’ll be—” He stopped abruptly, gulped once or twice, and then asked, in an ominously quiet voice: “What did you do season before last?”

“Nothing. It was my first year in professional baseball.”

“What!” Brennan’s face turned purple, and his last shreds of self-restraint vanished. “You pitched one season, an’ got the gall to expect a job with the Hornets! You expect me to believe that Ed Toler, the best scout I’ve got, picked you up without saying a word to me about it—when we’re overrun with pitchers, at that. I don’t want you. Training was begun ten days ago, an’ I got enough men. You can hike back to the bush, where you come from. I wasn’t born yesterday,[14] an’ you can’t put one over me like this. Get that?”

As he listened to the tirade, the color flamed into Locke’s face, and his grip on the leather glove tightened. Then, from the group of players, who had been interested spectators of the interview, came a smothered laugh, which seemed to act like a tonic. As he heard it, Locke’s eyes narrowed and his face hardened.

“You don’t want me?” he repeated, in a steady voice. “You’re willing to release me from the contract I made with Toler?”

“That’s what I said,” growled Brennan.

“Then I’m free to accept any other offer?”

Something in his tone made the manager prick up his ears, all his professional instincts aroused. It is one thing to fire a man who isn’t wanted, but quite another to let him go when another club is after him. “Offer!” he sneered, with deliberate intent. “I s’pose the Tigers an’ the Blue Stockings are fair tearing each other’s eyes out as to which’ll have you.”

Lefty’s lips tightened at the man’s tone. “You guessed right, in a way,” he retorted. “Twenty-four hours after I pledged with Toler, I had an offer from the Blue Stockings of a thousand dollars more than your scout promised me.”

[15]

The silence which followed this statement was eloquent. Some one in the little group near by whistled incredulously. Brennan’s eyes were fixed intently on the cub pitcher’s face, as if he were trying to make out whether this was the truth or a magnificent bluff. Accustomed as he was to judging men, he was forced to admit that the youngster did not look like a liar.

“And how much was that?” he demanded abruptly.

“Twenty-five hundred.” Already Lefty was sorry for his impulsive outburst. In a flash he realized that if he had kept his mouth shut he would have been free in a moment to accept the better offer.

“Humph!” grunted Brennan thoughtfully. If Doyle, of the Blue Stockings—the Hornets’ most bitter rivals—wanted this kid as bad as that, there must be something in him, and it would never do to let him go. Much as he hated backing water, the manager was too shrewd a man to allow personal feelings to influence his professional judgment. He scowled deeply, bit his lips, and then snapped sourly:

“Well, seeing as you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. Trot out there and take that fellow’s place; I can use him somewhere else.[16] Toss a few straight, easy ones over the plate. Stir your stumps now,” he went on, turning fiercely on the astonished group near by. “You boys get busy. We’ve wasted too much time. We’ll stop this general shillalah swinging, and take the field in regular positions. Every one of you run your hits out. You need the exercise.”

Without a word, Lefty turned, and made his way toward the cub pitcher, who had been shuffling around near the slab waiting for the altercation to end. He had been extremely foolish not to keep his face shut, but there was nothing to be gained by repining over the past.

An instant later, as his eyes met those of the man he was replacing, he started slightly, and a look of dazed surprise flashed into his face. It vanished swiftly, but as he reached the fellow his lips were compressed, his eyes hard and cold.

“Hello, Elgin,” he said stiffly.

The other, his face black as a thunder cloud, growled out an unintelligible monosyllable, thrust the ball into Locke’s hand, and walked hurriedly away, leaving the latter to stare after him with an expression which told, as well as spoken words could have done, how unpleasant and distasteful the encounter was to him.

[17]

CHAPTER II A CALL-DOWN FROM THE MANAGER

The meeting had so surprised and startled Lefty that he stood there for a moment or two, ball in hand, watching Elgin join the manager and start with him toward another part of the field. He was aroused abruptly by a drawling, sarcastic voice from the plate:

“Don’t hurry yourself, bub; any time to-day will do.”

It was burly Buck Fargo, the prize backstop, who stood leaning indolently on his bat, watching Locke with mocking eyes. Lefty recognized him instantly from the many published pictures he had seen, and, berating himself inwardly for having given the fellow a chance to criticise, he swiftly toed the pitcher’s plate and sent the ball over.

Of course, it went wide. The cub catcher let out a stream of sarcastic language as he stretched himself in vain for it. A joyful snicker arose from the waiting players, and Fargo grinned aggravatingly.

[18]

“Try again, bub,” the latter invited pleasantly. “Jest a mite nearer this time, say a couple of feet. This here stick’s only regulation length, and I ain’t built like a gorilla.”

Lefty bit his lips and made no response. A small boy retrieved the ball, and the irate catcher whipped it out with decidedly unnecessary force. With gritted teeth, Locke caught it, determined that there would be no more exhibitions like that. He did not know what was the matter with him. To be sure, he had done very little pitching for a long time, but he should be able to find the plate better than this.

The second effort was not much of an improvement, and a howl of derision greeted it; for there is nothing a crowd of old baseball men enjoy more than having fun with a green cub.

The sound had a curious effect upon Lefty. Before the echoes of that jeering chorus died away he had regained his grip. He realized that they were doing their best to rattle him and cause him to make an exhibition of himself, and his jaw squared resolutely.

“I’ll fool ’em!” he muttered. “I’ll show him something.”

He caught the ball easily, his eyes fixed on Fargo’s grinning face. The big catcher stood[19] negligently swinging his bat, and when he saw the sphere coming apparently straight toward him with speed, he dodged back precipitously, only to behold it shoot gracefully in and cut a corner of the plate.

“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “Accidents will happen. You’ve really got a curve, have you? Let’s have another one like that, if you can do it.”

Lefty could and did, and the batter sent the horsehide soaring over the fence. Obedient to instructions, he tossed aside his bat, and began trotting leisurely around the bases. Halfway between first and second he paused for a moment. “You’ll learn, bub,” he chuckled. “Some time next fall mebbe we’ll make a pitcher out of you.” Then he resumed his placid way about the diamond, while a new ball was produced, and Locke faced the second batter.

Lefty did not try any more curves, for he had suddenly realized that this was batting practice, not an exhibition of pitching. He continued to find the plate with a fair degree of accuracy, however, and one after another the three other players smashed out the sphere with joyous enthusiasm, forgetting in the delight of batting to continue their baiting of the new pitcher.

[20]

Not so Buck Fargo. He enjoyed batting quite as much, as his companions, but he also dearly loved to get a cub’s goat.

“Where’s your curves, bub?” he taunted, as he took up his bat for the second time. “Can’t you give us something interesting, or was they accidents, like I thought?”

Lefty smiled faintly. He did not intend to give Fargo the satisfaction of seeing that his words made any impression whatever. In spite of his determination, however, as he flung his arm forward, unconsciously he gave it a little twist which, made the horsehide—seemingly wide at first—cut a corner of the plate in an elusive curve. The batter hit it glancingly, and popped up a little fly which Locke smothered without moving more than a step or two from his position.

“Not bad for the bush,” chuckled Fargo, quite undisturbed. “Saved me the trouble of stretching my legs, anyhow. Come ahead, Cy, and see what you can do with the boy wonder from Squedunk.” He shot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye toward a distant part of the field, and went on in exactly the same tone, with scarcely a perceptible break: “He’s got a baby curve or two that might be fair if he could control ’em.”

Lefty was possessed by an irresistible impulse[21] to see what he could do with the mighty pitcher, Cy Russell. He knew perfectly well that the discomfiture of one of their number might get the whole bunch down on him, but he was a very human individual, with a spice of obstinacy in his make-up. Moreover, he had failed to catch that quick glance of Fargo’s across the field, and so was quite unsuspecting.

As Russell faced him, Locke deliberately sent over a drop which fooled the batter completely. A slow floater was equally successful, and a swift, straight one, cutting the center of the pan, completed the discomfiture of the notoriously poorest hitter in the organization.

Fargo jeered out something about luck and “goose eggs,” and hustled the next man to the plate. Lefty, throwing prudence and common sense to the winds, resolved to give them what they clamored for if it was in his power. He fooled the batter into swinging at a clever bender, and then, oblivious to the sudden cessation of Fargo’s taunting voice, was just winding up to pitch again when a hand suddenly gripped his wrist, and a harsh voice sounded in his ear:

“What the deuce do you think you’re doing, Locke?”

Brought to earth, Lefty swung around, and[22] stared for an instant, with mantling cheeks, at Jim Brennan’s angry face.

“Gimme that ball!” rasped the manager. Locke handed it over without a word. “I s’pose you think you’re mighty smart showin’ off your cute tricks,” the older man went on, in a cold, biting tone; “but that’s where you fall down—hard. This is batting practice, not a Fourth of July celebration. When I want any fireworks I’ll let you know. Get that? Well, see you remember it. Another stage play like this will be your finish. All around the park, boys, and then back to dinner.”

He turned from Lefty with an abruptness which made it impossible for the cub pitcher to say a word in his own defense, and perhaps it was just as well. To tell the truth, there was nothing to be said. Locke realized perfectly that he was totally in the wrong. A moment later, as he caught a glimpse of Buck Fargo’s grinning face, it flashed over him that the whole thing was a put-up job to get him a call. The big catcher could not have failed to see Brennan coming long before the manager got within hearing distance, yet he had kept up his taunts to the last minute in order that Locke might be taken by surprise.

“Looks like my luck had deserted me,” Lefty[23] thought, as he fell into the line of men trotting briskly around the field just inside the high board fence. “Haven’t been here an hour before I get a call from the manager and run into Bert Elgin.”

At the thought of the latter’s presence in the squad, he frowned deeply. The call-down was swiftly forgotten, but this other annoyance was likely to be much more lasting and trouble-breeding in its results.

[24]

CHAPTER III THE RIOT AT THE THEATER

“A rah, rah boy, is he?” sneered a voice from the group not far away. “I see his finish.”

Lefty knew they were talking about him. He had been aware of the fact for five minutes or so, but this was the first remark which had reached his ears in its entirety. Sitting in a corner of the Hatchford House lobby, he turned his head slightly and met the belligerent glance of a burly, dark-browed, full-lipped fellow of twenty-six or seven, who was lounging against a pillar a little way off.

For a moment their eyes clashed, and then Hagin—Lefty had heard him so called, and recognized the name as that of the left fielder on the regulars—laughed disagreeably and said something to the man next him, who glanced up, stared, and turned away with just the same sort of laugh.

Lefty’s eyes dropped to the newspaper he held before him. In the scant nine hours since his appearance on the field that morning, the wide difference between a bush-league team and an organization[25] like the Hornets had been forced upon him at every turn. In his joy and astonishment at the unexpected offer from Brennan’s scout, to say nothing of the better one which followed it so closely, he had given little thought to what his reception would be by the other players.

He was far too sensible, of course, to expect anything like an open-armed welcome, but he had not quite counted on the cold-shouldered indifference which was meted out to him from every quarter.

The other fellows were mostly friendly enough among themselves. On the field, in the hotel dining room, and now in the lobby, they gathered in little groups, laughing, joking, chaffing each other in a way which, in no small degree, emphasized the newcomer’s loneliness and isolation.

Lefty had tried several times during the day to scrape acquaintance with some fellow who looked pleasant and friendly enough, for he was a chap who enjoyed the companionship of his fellow men, and exactly the sort of joshing give-and-take which is inevitable when a crowd of like-minded individuals get together. His mild little efforts had been met with such brusque, chilling indifference, however, that he speedily gave it up.

“I seem to have gotten in wrong from the[26] start,” he reflected, as he sat with his eyes fixed on the paper, though he had read scarcely a word. “Brennan’s sore as a crab because he had to back water before his own men. I wish to thunder he hadn’t! I’d be better off. Then there was that fool exhibition of mine on the field. I suppose they all think I’m swelled up about my pitching, and was showing off. And now they’ve found out I’m a college man. I wonder how they got wise to that. I didn’t mean any one should know, if I could help it; some professionals seem to have such a deep dislike for a fellow who’s been through college. I wonder if Elgin could have dropped a hint.”

In reality Lefty had quite missed the most important reason of all. Other things may have influenced the men in some small degree, but the simple fact of his belated arrival at the training quarters accounted for more than anything else.

Ten days had been ample for the cubs, or new recruits, to become acquainted. They had formed their little cliques, split up into their different factions. They were sufficient unto themselves. It was natural for them to treat a new arrival with jealous coldness, for every additional candidate only decreased the chances of the others[27] to make good. As for the old men—the regulars of this especial team—they had small use for a youngster until he showed himself made of the right stuff.

At length, tired of sitting alone, Lefty arose and sallied forth to take a casual inspection of the Texas town. Ashland was a place of some size, and decidedly up to date. A number of factories and various oil refineries gave employment to several thousand workmen, the majority of whom—it seemed to Lefty—were thronging the brightly lighted streets, blocking the corners, or crowding into the many moving-picture or vaudeville shows which lined the main thoroughfares.

Lefty did not find this solitary inspection of the town very exciting, and, after he had traversed a few of the principal streets, he decided that he had had enough. A glance at his watch told him that it was only a quarter to eight. The evening seemed to be dragging along with infinite slowness. He might return to the hotel and go to bed, of course, but he wasn’t in the least sleepy, and somehow he had a feeling that by doing such a thing he would be giving in. Finally the glaring lights of a combination moving-picture and vaudeville show across the street gave him an idea.[28] Crossing hastily, he bought a ticket and pushed into the darkened auditorium.

The place was jammed to the doors with a rather boisterous crowd, made up almost entirely of men. Lefty could see no vacant seat, and so he took his place against the wall back of the last row, from which position he watched the progress of the pictured drama with a certain amount of interest. There was no questioning the unusual excellence of the films.

Two of them were rolled off before the stage lights went up and the curtain lifted upon the Montmorency Sisters, vocalists. Lefty yawned, and decided to get out. The place was hot and stuffy, and he was on the point of crowding past the later arrivals who filled the space near him, when, suddenly catching sight of two men sitting three rows away, he changed his mind.