Read Ebook: Lefty o' the bush by Standish Burt L

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Ebook has 1571 lines and 61344 words, and 32 pages

"Don't you do it," said Dyke, vapory bits of bluish cigarette smoke curling from his thin lips as he spoke.

"Do what?" grunted Riley in surprise.

"Run in Prawley. You were thinking of letting Hoover squat on the bench."

"How'd you know that?" asked the manager, still more surprised.

"Saw it on your face."

"If my mug gives me away in that fashion, I'll trade it for another," growled Mike, in displeasure. "But why not pitch Prawley? He can swaller that bunch, one after another, without greasin'. This is our first game here, and Jock ain't so pop'ler in this town."

"What do you care about that? It's our first game here, and we want it, to hold first place. If they should happen to trim us to-day, they'd have us tied."

With the mutilated and lifeless cigar gripped in his coarse teeth, Riley pulled down the corners of his big mouth disdainfully. "Trim us--with that bunch of scrubs and has-beens! Why, they couldn't do it if I went in and pitched myself."

"Take it from me, 'tain't wise to be so cocksure. I've been watching their new pitcher warm up. He's a southpaw."

"And a green one from the scrub pastures somewhere. The boys will send him to the stable in about three innin's."

"Perhaps. But I walked over in range while he was limbering his flinger, and he's got a few good benders, not to mention some speed. You don't want to forget that we've got five left-hand batters, and a southpaw that can really pitch may bother 'em some. I reckon that's just why they've raked in this feller Locke."

"Don't you b'lieve it. Just spoke to Hutch about him, and Hutch don't know no more'n you or me. Old Cope signed Locke and the most of the team, and he'd never figger on a lefty worryin' us because we've got so many left-hand hitters."

"To-morrow's Sunday, and Hoover can rest," he added. "He's hard as nails, and you won't hurt him, even if you have to use him again Monday. Always play the game safe when you can--that's my motto. I'll take chances, all right, if I have to, but I've never yet let my conscience fret me into ducking a bet on a sure thing. Hoover is the Kinks' hoodoo, and it ought to be pretty safe with him handing 'em."

"Safe," gurgled Riley, highly amused. "I should guess yes. They think they've got some players, but, with Hutchinson furnishin' only four out of the 'leven men they have, as he told me, and Cope diggin' up the rest, most of 'em holdovers from last year, it's a joke.

"Why, I let old Cope have Pat Deever, though he thinks he got Deever away from me. Just as I was about to close with Pat, I got it straight that he'd put his wing on the blink for fair, and, by pretendin' I was hot after Deever all the time, I helped him make a fancy deal with Cope.

"Pat was batted out by the Brownies after fooling 'em along to the seventh with a slow ball that made him sweat drops of blood ev'ry time he boosted it over the pan; but he's foxy, and he'll manage to hang on by bluffing 'em that his arm'll come round soon, see if he don't," added Riley. "The only pitcher they've got is Skillings, and even he's frapp?d his wing, pitchin' the drop all the time, which he has to, as he's a mark when he lets up on it."

"You're manager," said Fancy, "and I'm not trying to show you; but I hope you'll play safe by sending Hoover out to start with. If it proves so easy, you can pull him out when you see the game is clinched."

"All right. Jock's name is on the battin' order, and I'll let him start her off."

THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER

Dyke expressed satisfaction, and the hazelnut sparkler in his blazing red tie reflected varicolored gleams from its many facets, as his cupped hands held a burning match to light a fresh cigarette.

As he flung aside the match, and chanced to glance past the far end of the bleachers, his black eyes glinted on beholding a girl in a light dress, shading herself with a pale-blue parasol, and seated in a carriage that had just drawn up in line with others out there. A span of spirited and extremely restless bays were attached to the carriage. At the girl's side, wearing a light suit, straw hat, and tan driving gloves, sat a square-shouldered young man.

"Hel-lo!" breathed Fancy. "There's old man King's cub, with the parson's daughter. I don't blame him, for she certainly is some peach. She must be getting independent; last year I offered to get her a season ticket, but she said her hidebound old man wouldn't let her come to the games, which he considered sinful and poisonous to the morals of the community."

"Huh!" grunted Riley, eyeing the girl in the carriage. "She's a year older now, and mebbe she's given the old pulpit pounder notice that she proposes henceforth to do about as she pleases. I've heard she's ruther high-strung and lively."

"Well, she's taking a chance with Bent King, 'cording to his college record. He cut it out so hot that he was fired the second year, and then his old man, feeling somewhat peeved, set him to work in the big mill here. Now the brat's foreman of the mill, though I reckon it was his father that put him there over better men, and not his ability."

"Oh, you're jealous," chuckled the manager. "She turned you down when you tried to git gay, that's what's the matter. You oughter considered, Fancy, that your record was agin' ye, and that you was known by reputation in Kingsbridge, just as well as in Bancroft. I've noticed the right sorter gals don't travel in your society extensively."

Dyke's thin cheek took on a faint flush, and he gnawed with his sharp white teeth one corner of his close-cropped, small black mustache.

"I reckon she'd be as safe with me as with Bent King," he retorted. "Of course, I know what her old man would think of me; but in these days girls don't tell their folks about every man they're friendly with."

"There's old Cope speakin' to her now," said Riley. "Looket him take the cover off that skatin' rink of his. There's real swagger gallantry for ye, Flash."

A stout, red-faced, jolly-looking man in a somewhat soiled snuff-colored suit had paused beside the carriage to lift his hat and speak to the girl, who greeted him with a charming smile and a show of fetching dimples.

"Howdy-do, Janet," said the man on the ground. "I'm s'prised to see you here, though I b'lieve you did tell me you was crazy over baseball. Your father's so set agin' it that I didn't s'pose he'd let you come. Howdy-do, Benton. Fine day for the opening."

"Oh, father is as bad as ever," laughed the girl; "but I told Bent how much I wanted to come, and he drove round and used his persuasion with daddy, who finally consented, after getting a promise that I would sit in the carriage and not step out of it. It was jolly nice of Benton, for I am crazy over the game, and I'd go to see one every day if I could."

She was fresh and girlish and unaffected, yet, somehow, she did not give one the impression of crudity and silliness so often shown by a vivacious, blue-eyed blonde. Although very pretty, she was not doll-like, and one who studied her mobile, changeful face would soon discover there, as well as in her voice and manner, unmistakable signs of good breeding and character. Her eyes were unusual; one could not look into their depths without feeling irresistibly attracted toward her.

The young man at her side, a well-set-up chap a trifle above medium height, was the only son of Cyrus King. He was not more than twenty-four, and had a somewhat cynical, haughty face, with a pair of flashing dark eyes and petulant mouth. Nevertheless, when he laughed, which he did quite frequently, he was attractive, almost handsome.

"Yes, Cope," he nodded, as the older man brought forth a handkerchief and mopped his perspiring bald head; "it certainly is a good day for the opening, and there's a cracking crowd out to see it. They're beginning to overflow the seats. Suppose we have any show at all to win?"

"But we're up against Bancroft, and I see Jock Hoover has just finished warming up to pitch for them."

"That'll jest make it all the more interestin'. We've got a pitcher, too, I want you to know. I signed him myself, and he'll make 'em set up and take notice. You jest watch Tom Locke when he goes inter the box."

"I've heard something about him. Who is he? And where did you get him?"

Running the handkerchief round the sweatband inside his soiled straw hat, Henry Cope winked shrewdly, and covered his shining dome.

"Why, didn't I tell ye his name is Tom Locke? Never mind where I picked him up. He's got the goods, and he'll deliver 'em. If he don't jest naturally make them Bullies break their backs poundin' empty air to-day, I'll be the most s'prised man in the county."

"We've got him," assured Henry Cope. "We've got the very feller in this here Locke. You watch and see."

"There goes the umpire," said King. "They are going to start the game."

"Excuse me," said Cope hastily. "I think I'll git over by our bench, where I can watch Locke work. That's him--that tall, slim chap goin' inter the box now. Jest keep your eye on him. So long."

He hurried away as the umpire called "play" and Bancroft's first batter rose and trotted out from the bench.

A BAD BEGINNING

A yell rose from the crowd which now almost completely encircled the field. It was not a cheer, such as may sometimes be heard at the beginning of a Big League game; it was a sudden, sharp, nerve-shocking combination of bellow and shriek, primitive in its methodless manner of expressing joyous satisfaction and elation that the moment had arrived for the contest to begin. Thus may have a gathering of primordial mankind, assembled to witness some sort of sanguinary gladiatorial contest, voiced its fierce emotion at the sight of trained warriors charging upon one another in the arena.

This burst of sound died away in a few scattering whoops and yelps as the umpire, body protector adjusted, mask held ready, lifted his hand for silence.

"Game t'-day," he shouted hoarsely, "Bancrof' ag'inst Kingsbridge. Bat'ry f'r Kingsbridge, Locke 'n' Oulds; bat'ry f'r Bancroft, Hoover 'n' Bangs. Pla-a-ay ball-ll!"

"Ye-ee-ee!" shrieked the crowd, and then settled down to enjoy the struggle.

Bill Harney, clever sticker and captain of the Bancroft team, was ready at the plate. "Hunchy" Oulds, breastplated and masked, spat into the pocket of his catching mitt, rubbed the moisture about on the dented leather with his fingers, and then squatted behind the pan to signal. The umpire, celluloid recorder held behind his back, leaned forward on his toes to get a clear view over Oulds' head. Tom Locke toed the slab.

"Git th' fust one, boy!" roared a voice from the crowd. "Show what y' c'n do. Breeze him!"

The tall young man on the mound gave a shake of his head as he tossed back a lock of brown hair. His clean-cut face was a bit pale, and he seemed somewhat nervous, which was not strange, considering his apparent youth and the nature of the tumultuous, rough-and-ready crowd whose eyes were fastened upon him. He wore a glove on his right hand, and it was his cleat-tipped right shoe that touched the slab. Leaning forward, he nodded a bit as he caught the catcher's signal, swinging immediately into his delivery.

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