LEFTY O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of “Lefty o’ the Bush,” “Lefty o’ the Big League,” “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 THE UNLUCKY SEVENTH

It was “Bush” Aldrich, of the Specters, who started the trouble by smashing out a two-base hit in the seventh. Bush was one of the latest acquisitions of that hard-hitting, snappy, scrappy aggregation of Big League talent which had fought its way into the first division, and was giving last season’s pennant winners, the Blue Stockings, a decidedly uncomfortable time holding their all too scanty lead.

Bush had already shown his ability to stay with fast company by getting two clean singles off Grist, the Blue Stocking twirler, but fine fielding had prevented either bingle from being effective. Now, however, with one out, and a man on first and third, either through luck or cleverness, he hit again at the psychological moment to cause a break in the hard-fought game.

Grist, sure that he had fathomed the youngster’s[12] weakness, tried his sharp outdrop, which had pulled the right fielder more than once before. This time, however, Aldrich was ready for it. Poising a bat that was a bit longer than any he had used before, he stepped in as the ball curved and smote it a crack which brought half the spectators in the crowded stands to their feet with a concerted gasp of dismay.

As the sphere whistled out on a line, Larry Dalton, the Blue Stocking second baseman, flung up his hands in a ludicrous gesture of despair. Brock, the slim, speedy center fielder, had already turned his back on the home plate, and was flying toward the fence like a deer that has heard the whistling whine of a hunter’s bullet. Unfortunately, the ball held up better than he expected, and, though he strained every nerve, he saw that there was little chance to make the catch.

With a last desperate spurt, he launched himself through the air like a catapult, both hands outstretched. The horsehide struck the ends of his fingers, and a despairing groan rose from the staring fans as it fell to the ground and rolled to one side.

Brock snatched it up, and whipped it back into the diamond. Bugs Murray was just jogging over the plate. Logie, the Specter shortstop, had rounded second, and was flying toward third, urged on by staccato promptings from the coaching[13] line. Aldrich was fairly tearing up the ground between first and second. As the sphere came whirling toward the waiting Dalton’s eager hands, Bush slid.

The umpire, squatting to watch the play, put his hand out, palm downward; and another groan arose from the stands, punctuated, by protesting yells and bitter comment.

“They’re gone!” shouted the Specter captain joyously. “They’re up in the air! Hit her on the nose, Rowdy; you can do it!”

Kenyon, the visitors’ clever second baseman, pranced, grinning, to the plate, seemingly inspired with new life. Grist caught the ball deftly, apparently undisturbed by the unfortunate break. As he paused to drive Logie back to third, however, he discovered that Carson, the new manager, had left the coaching line and returned to the bench, from which he could get an accurate view of the entire field.

“He needn’t worry,” muttered the pitcher to himself, as he turned back to face the smiling batter. “We’re still one run to the good, and this little flurry is going to have the kibosh put on it right here and now.”

He had little fear of Kenyon doing anything; so far Rowdy’s hitting had been of a decidedly negligible quality. Perhaps it was this touch of unconscious carelessness which proved Pete[14] Grist’s undoing; perhaps it was due simply to the mysterious hitting streak which comes at the most unexpected times, and without apparent reason. At all events, after playing the waiting game to the last moment, Kenyon finally smashed a sizzler through the short field, scoring Logie, and himself reaching first by a great sprint.

Instantly the entire Specter visiting team began openly to rejoice:

“Up in a balloon!” “Got him going!” “Here’s where we lock it up in a valise!” “Murder it, Ted, old man!” “Laminate it! Only one down, you know.”

A low, concerted growl began to sound from the spectators who crowded the stands. Ready to shout themselves hoarse for a man pitching a winning game, their displeasure was even more swift, and quite without mercy. Here and there a shrill voice bawled admonition and biting criticism, which sounded above the barking chorus of the Blue Stocking infield:

“Get into him, Pete, old man!”

“Kill him, old boy! You can do it!”

“Warp ’em round his neck!”

A spot of red glowed dully in each tanned cheek as Grist dug his copper toe clip into the earth and cuddled the ball under his chin. The sudden yelping from his teammates told the pitcher that they were not sure of him. They were seeking[15] to brace him up, as if he had been a raw recruit instead of the bright particular star of the Blue Stocking pitching staff. Moreover his quick eye had not failed to notice the hasty appearance of two men from the sheltered players’ bench, who loped off to the right, shedding sweaters as they went.

There are times when it takes very little to upset the equilibrium of the most seasoned twirler, and apparently this was one of them. For six innings Grist had pitched an almost errorless game, and there was every reason why he should do his best to finish it.

Dillon was laid up, Bill Orth had a bad shoulder, and both Reilly and Lumley were notoriously independable at a moment like this. There was Lefty Locke, to be sure, but the thought of this brilliant young southpaw who had, in a few short months, pushed his way upward until he rivaled Grist himself in the esteem of players and fans alike, made the older pitcher squirm inwardly, and brought a dogged, determined expression to his face.

A moment later there was a crack, a yell of joy from the Specters, a groan from the despairing fans. In spite of his self-control, a smothered gasp of dismay burst from Grist’s lips. Knowing Red Callahan’s impetuosity, he had tried to tempt him with a teasing outdrop. That he managed[16] to connect with it was probably quite as much a surprise to the sorrel-topped third baseman as to anyone; but connect he did in beautiful style, smashing out a single which sent Aldrich across the rubber with the leading run.

Above the uproar of hoots and yells and catcalls from the stands, the new manager, half rising to signal Orth to go into the box, heard a sound he had rather been expecting for the past few minutes:

“Carson! One moment!”

It was the sharp, incisive voice of the Blue Stockings’ owner, who sat with his daughter in one of the boxes just behind the bench, and there was an imperative note in it which brought the manager hurrying in that direction.

“Did you call me, Mr. Collier?” he asked, as he reached the box.

The tall, broad-shouldered, keen-faced man bent swiftly over the railing.

“I did,” he replied, in a low tone. “Grist is going to pieces. Why don’t you take him out?”

“I was just going to. I’ve had Orth warming up for three or four minutes.”

Charles Collier frowned. “Orth!” he exclaimed. “But his shoulder’s lame. This is no time to put in a cripple. Why don’t you use your southpaw, Locke?”

“He pitched a hard game yesterday and—”

[17]

“And won it,” interrupted the owner swiftly.

“Quite so; but my idea was not to work him too hard,” returned the manager suavely. “Of course, if you wish it—”

“I do. In my opinion he’s the only man who can stop the break and pull things together. He’s got the measure of every one of these fellows. I don’t think you need worry about three innings hurting his arm.”

“Very well,” said Carson. “I’ll send him out there at once.”

His expression was bland and pleasant, but the instant his back was turned he frowned. “Butting in as soon as this, are you?” he muttered, striding toward the bench. “Picked a favorite already, too. I s’pose Pete’ll be sore as a crab, but it can’t be helped. Locke!”

There was a quick movement, and from the players’ bench appeared a tall, lithe, cleanly built, long-armed youngster of twenty-three or so, his cap pushed back on a mass of heavy, dark brown hair, a look of inquiry in his keen, brown eyes.

“Want me?”

“Yes,” said Carson sharply. “Get into the box as quick as you can. I meant to use Orth, but his shoulder’s bad. You’ll have to go in without warming up. And hold ’em, kid. We can’t afford to lose this game, you know.”

Lefty had already yanked off his sweater.[18] Even as the manager finished, he caught the glove tossed out by the second catcher.

“I’ll do my best,” he returned, jerking his cap forward over his eyes.

An instant later he was walking out upon the diamond with a lithe, springy stride which told of splendid muscles under perfect control. And as he came into view of the grandstand, the hoots and yells lessened swiftly, merging with amazing abruptness into a shout of delight, accompanied by a thunderous stamping of feet.

“Oh, you Lefty!” shrieked the fans fondly. “Oh, you kiddo! Kill ’em! Eat ’em alive! Nothin’ doin’ now, Specters. Good night for yours!”

[19]

CHAPTER II STOPPING A RALLY

By dint of playing for time, and putting over a couple of wide ones, Pete Grist had prevented Forbes, the Specter left fielder, from adding to the damage already done. Knowing that he would be taken out, he had the wit to seize every possible chance to delay the game, and thus run no risk of making any further errors.

He supposed, however, that his successor would be Orth, whom he had seen start to warm up a few minutes before. When Lefty appeared on the field amid the delighted roars of the spectators, Grist’s face turned a brick red, and for a second or two he looked as if he could have committed murder with the greatest possible enjoyment.

It is provoking enough, in all conscience, for a pitcher to have to leave the box on account of bad control. But to be superseded by a youngster whose Big League experience is limited to a few months, yet who, in that time, had set the fans yelling for him as if he were a Mathewson, is sufficiently[20] humiliating to stir the mildest man to wrath.

Mildness was not Pete Grist’s long suit, nor was this the first time he had writhed in the grip of the green-eyed monster. As Locke reached him his face was like a thundercloud. He fairly flung the ball at the southpaw, and, without a word, turned on his heel and strode toward the bench.

Lefty stood for an instant staring after him, a touch of sympathy in his eyes. He knew from experience precisely how it felt to be benched under such circumstances.

“Tough luck,” he murmured, as he mounted the hill. “I don’t blame him for being sore. I would myself.”

Directly, however, he had thrust the disgruntled pitcher from his mind, and was bringing all his skill and cunning to bear on the task before him. He knew the importance of winning the game to-day. It was one of those close seasons, with three teams fighting like bulldogs for first place.

At first the struggle had seemed to lie between the Blue Stockings and their old-time rivals, the Hornets. Well into July these two organizations had it nip and tuck, and the Blue Stockings had no sooner forged definitely ahead than they were menaced by the speedy Specters, who were playing[21] this year as they had never played before. Back and forth they zigzagged, until at length the Blue Stockings, thanks in no small measure to the astonishing work of their young southpaw wonder, managed to accumulate a scanty lead, and hold it by the skin of their teeth.

If they could only manage to pull through this series in good shape, they could afford to lose a game or two of the return series, and still enter on the last Western circuit with a slight advantage.

Lefty lined a few to Dirk Nelson, and, having found the plate, nodded to the batter, who stepped up to the rubber again. The Blue Stockings’ owner had been right in saying that Locke had taken the measure of the opposing team. The ability to size up swiftly and accurately a batter’s strong and weak points, likes and dislikes, was something which had contributed much to the southpaw’s extraordinary success. He believed he knew the sort of ball Forbes could not hit safely; and promptly, though without any appearance of haste, he proceeded to hand it up.

To the delight of the fans, the batter missed. The second one he fouled. Then he let two go by. Finally he missed again, having been fooled at last by a sudden change of pace and a slow drop when he expected speed. As he sauntered toward the bench in elaborate affectation of indifference,[22] the spectators chortled gleefully, while a ripple of returning confidence swept over the Blue Stocking players.

“Never mind that!” cried Murray, the visitors’ captain, from the coaching line. “Get off that hassock, Rowdy. On your toes! Now, Jim, let’s have one of the old-timers mother used to make.”

Donovan, the famous Specter twirler, was also a clever stickman. During the past season his hitting average had been little short of the three-hundred mark, and he was especially noted for helping along a streak of luck. He walked up to the plate, bat swinging nonchalantly, on his face that confident grin which annoys many a pitcher who pretends that he is not disturbed.

Lefty eyed him coolly for an instant; then his eyes dropped to where Nelson crouched, giving a signal. He shook his head. With some slight reluctance, the catcher responded by calling for another ball, and shifted his position the barest trifle. A second later the sphere came whistling, with a slight inswerve, across the batter’s shoulders. Forbes’ bat found nothing but empty air.

“Str-r-rike!” called the umpire, flinging up his right hand.

“Look out for those, Jim,” called Murray. “Make ’em be good!”

Donovan let the next one pass. It was a ball.[23] Then followed a slow one, delivered with a swing and snap that fooled the batter into striking before the lingering, tantalizing horsehide was within reach.

Donovan frowned and regained his balance, annoyed slightly by the burst of raucous delight from the stands. When he faced the pitcher again the grin still curved his lips, but it had grown somewhat thin.

Silence settled over the field. Ten thousand straining eyes were turned anxiously on the quiet figure in the pitcher’s box.

Lefty’s hand drew back slowly, cuddling the ball for a second as he poised himself on one foot. Then, like a flash, his long left arm swung flail like through the air.

The ball was high—almost too high, it seemed at first. But suddenly it flashed downward past Donovan’s shoulders, and across his breast. Too late the batter saw it drop, and tried weakly to hit. There was a swish, a plunk, and—

“Batter’s out!” bawled the umpire.

[24]

CHAPTER III TIED IN THE EIGHTH

“Pretty work,” commented a blond young man on the reporter’s bench, pushing back his rakish green hat. “There’s one thing about Locke, you can always bank on his using his head. He certainly stopped that rally in great shape.”

“Huh!” grunted the stout, bald man beside him. “I can’t see anything very wonderful in that.” He took off his glasses, and began to polish them. “It don’t take any extraordinary amount of skill to outguess Forbes, and Donovan’s never very dangerous to a pitcher who knows him.”

“Oh, come now, Eckstein,” protested the blond reporter. “Jim’s no slouch at the bat, and you know it. What have you got against Locke, anyhow?”

Eckstein replaced his glasses, and yawned. “Nothing special, Dyer,” he drawled. “I’ve been too long in the business, though, to lose my[25] head over every infant phenom who butts into the Big League. More than half of ’em can’t keep up the pace they set themselves at first.”

“I’ll bet Locke does,” Dyer said energetically. “He’s got too much sense to use himself up the way some of the cubs do. He plays the game for all there is in it, but he plays it with his head even more than with that corking portside hooker of his. Anyhow, he’s the Blue Stockings’ one best bet this season, take it from me, Eck. Only for him they’d be in the second division, with all this monkey business of new owner and new manager right in the middle of the season. That plays hob with a team even if the old manager’s a bum, which Jack Kennedy wasn’t, by a long shot. By the way, Eck, where’s he gone?”

“Who? Kennedy?” grunted the stout man, his eyes fixed on the diamond. “Back to his farm, I reckon. He’s got one somewhere in the Middle West.—Pretty work, Jim. That’s the way to pull ’em.”

With a sudden flush at the realization that he had missed a trick, the young reporter hastily subsided, and turned his attention to the diamond. Whatever might be said of Jim Donovan’s hitting ability, no fault could be found with his skill in the box. Encouraged by the success of the last inning, he evidently realized that it was up to him to see that the Specters kept their lead[26] of one run, and the result was an exhibition of clever pitching.

Dirk Nelson, the Blue Stocking backstop, was beguiled into popping to second. Jack Daly, unsurpassed as a third baseman, but an erratic stickman, fanned ignominiously. It looked as if Lefty would follow Daly’s example, but, with two and two called, he connected with a tricky drop, and beat the ball to first by a hair. Taking a good lead, he went down on the second ball pitched to Spider Grant. It was effort wasted, however, for the Blue Stocking first baseman presently fouled out back of third. This brought the inning to an abrupt termination, amid much rejoicing on the part of the visitors, and low grumbling from the disappointed fans.

“Well,” said Dyer defensively, “it was the tail end of the list. Anyhow, Locke got a hit.”

Eckstein chuckled. It amused the veteran newspaper man to note the violent fancies and prejudices of callow cub reporters.

“Still harping on the virtues of your miraculous southpaw?” he smiled. “I’ll ask you just one question, Dyer: If he’s such a triple-plated wonder, how did Jim Brennan, of the Hornets, come to release him outright? I never yet knew the hard-headed old vet to let any ten-thousand-dollar beauties slip through his fingers.”

“Still something to learn, Eck, strange as that[27] may seem,” drawled a voice, before Dyer had time to answer. “Squeeze up a bit, and give a chap some room.”

A leg was thrust over the back of the seat, followed swiftly by another, and, as Eckstein’s eyes lighted upon the tanned and freckled face of the newcomer, his own face expanded in a fat smile.

“Well, well, well!” he chuckled, thrusting out a plump hand. “Back to the treadmill, eh? Have a good vacation?”

“Fine!” returned Jack Stillman, settling down between the two. “How are you, Dyer? Spent ten days up in the woods about a thousand miles away from anywhere, and then I began to get worried for fear this understudy of mine wasn’t sending the dope in right. How about it, kid? Old man have any kicks?”

“A few,” grunted the cub reporter. “He’d kick if he had the Angel Gabriel writing up games.”