Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager Part 18

The distance could not have been more than half a mile, and, considering the conveyance, it was made in record time.

"Whoa, yo' Nancy Hanks!" shouted the driver, surging back on the reins and stopping the animal so abruptly that Lefty was nearly pitched into the forward seat. "Did I heah yo' say you wanted to git heah in a hurry, sah?"

Locke jumped out. "That's the shortest mile I ever traveled," he said, handing over the price promised. "But then, when it comes to driving, Barney Oldfield has nothing on you."

Carrying his overcoat and bag, he hurried to the gate and paid the price of admission. A goodly crowd had gathered, and the local team was practicing on the field. Over at one side some of the visitors were getting in a little light batting practice. Mysterious Jones was warming up with Schaeffer. A short distance behind Jones stood Cap'n Wiley, his legs planted wide, his arms folded, his ear c.o.c.ked, listening to Mit Skullen, who was talking earnestly. Lefty strode hastily toward the pair.

"Sell him!" said the Marine Marvel, in reply to the scout, as the southpaw approached behind them. "Of course I will. But you made one miscue, mate; you should have come straight to me in the first place, instead of superflouing away your time seeking to pilfer him off me by stealth. What price do you respectfully tender?"

Locke felt a throb of resentful anger. Regardless of a square bargain already made, Wiley was ready to negotiate with Skullen. However, Mit had not yet succeeded in his purpose, and the southpaw was on hand to maintain a prior claim. Involuntarily he halted, waiting for the scout's offer.

"As you aren't in any regular league," said Mit, "by rights I don't have to give you anything for him; but if you'll jolly him into putting his fist to a contract, I'll fork over fifty bones out of my own pocket. Garrity won't stand for it, so I'll have to come through with the fifty myself."

"Your magnanimous offer staggers me!" exclaimed Wiley. "Allow me a moment to subdue my emotions. However and nevertheless, I fear me greatly that my bottom price would be slightly more than that."

"Well, what is your bottom price?" demanded Skullen. "Put it down to the last notch."

"I will. I'll give you bed-rock figures. Comprehend me, mate, I'll pare it right down to the bone, and you can't buy Jones a measly, lonesome cent less. I'll sell him to you for just precisely fifty thousand dollars."

The scout's jaw dropped, and he stared at the little man, who stared up at him in return, one eyelid slightly lowered, an oddly provocative expression on his swarthy face.

Slowly the look of incredulous disbelief turned to wrath. The purple color surged upward from Mit's bull neck into his scarred face; his huge hands closed.

"What are you trying to hand me, you blamed little runt?" he snarled.

"Where's the joke?"

"No joke at all, I hasten to postulate," said Wiley. "The scandalous fact is that I couldn't sell him to you at all without scuttling and sinking my sacred honor. But human nature is frail and p.r.o.ne to temptation, and for the sum of fifty thousand dollars I'd inveigle Jones into signing with you, even though never again as long as I should dwell on this terrestrial sphere could I look my old college chump, Lefty Locke, in the countenance."

Skullen's astonishment was a sight to behold. He made strange, wheezing, gurgling sounds in his throat. Presently one of his paws shot out and fastened on Cap'n Wiley's shoulder.

"What's that you're saying about Lefty Locke?" he demanded. "What are you giving me?"

"Straight goods, Mit," stated the southpaw serenely, as he stepped forward. "Too bad you wasted so much time making a long and useless trip."

Skullen came round with something like his old deftness of whirling in the ring when engaged in battle. Never in all his life had his battered face worn an uglier look. For a moment, however, he seemed to doubt the evidence of his eyes.

"Locke!" he gasped. "Here!"

"Yes, indeed," returned the new manager of the Blue Stockings pleasantly. "I reckoned you would be ahead of me, Mit; but, as a man of his word, Wiley couldn't do business with you. And without his aid there was little chance for you to make arrangements with Jones."

Skullen planted his clenched fists upon his hips and gazed at the southpaw with an expression of unrepressed hatred. His bearing, as well as his look, threatened a.s.sault. Lefty dropped his traveling bag to the ground, and tossed the overcoat he had been compelled to wear in the North upon it. He felt that it would be wise for him to have both hands free and ready for use.

CHAPTER XXII

A DOUBTFUL VICTORY

"Who sent you here?" demanded the belligerent individual. "What business have you got coming poking your nose into my affairs? You'd better chase yourself sudden."

Instead of exhibiting alarm, Lefty laughed in the man's face. "Don't make a show of yourself, Mit," he advised. "Bl.u.s.ter won't get you any ball players; at least, it won't get you this one. I've already made a deal for Jones."

"You haven't got his name on a contract; you hadn't time. If you had, Wiley'd told me."

"I made a fair trade for him before I went North."

Into Skullen's eyes there came a look of understanding and satisfaction.

His lips curled back from his ugly teeth.

"You didn't have any authority to make a trade then, for you weren't manager of the Stockings. You can't put anything like that over on me.

If you don't chase yourself, I'll throw you over the fence."

Sensing an impending clash, with the exception of the mute and the catcher, the Wind Jammers ceased their desultory practice and watched for developments. A portion of the spectators, also becoming aware that something unusual was taking place, turned their attention to the little triangular group not far from the visitors' bench.

"You couldn't get Jones if you threw me over into Georgia," said Locke, unruffled. "It won't do you any good to start a sc.r.a.p."

"Permit me to impersonate the dove of peace," pleaded Cap'n Wiley.

"Lefty is absolutely voracious in his statement that he made a fair and honorable compact with me, by which Jones is to become the legitimate chattel of the Blue Stockings. Still," he added, shaking his head and licking his lips, "flesh is weak and liable to err. If I had seen fifty thousand simoleons coming my way in exchange for the greatest pitcher of modern times, I'm afraid I should have lacked the energy to side-step them. The root of all evil has sometimes tempted me from the path of rect.i.tude. But now Lefty is here, and the danger is over.

It's no use, Skully, old top; the die is cast. You may as well submit gracefully to the inveterable."

Muttering inaudibly, Skullen turned and walked away.

"I have a contract in my pocket ready for the signature of Jones," said Lefty. "Will you get him to put his name to it before the game starts?"

"It will give me a pang of pleasure to do so," was the a.s.surance.

There on the field, envied by his teammates, Mysterious Jones used Locke's fountain pen to place his signature--A. B. Jones was the name he wrote--upon the contract that bound him to the Blue Stockings. What the initials stood for not even Wiley knew. For a moment the mute seemed to hesitate, but the Marine Marvel urged him on, and the deed was done.

"If you cater to his little giddyocyncracies," said the sailor, "you'll find him a pearl beyond price. Unless you're afraid Skully may return and mar your pleasure, you may sit on the bench with us and watch him toy with the local bric-a-brac. It is bound to be a painfully one-sided affair."

"Skullen," laughed Lefty, "has ceased to cause me special apprehension. The contract is signed now."

So Locke sat on the bench and watched his new pitcher perform. When he walked to the mound, Jones seemed, if possible, more somber and tragic than usual, and he certainly had his speed with him. Yet neither the ominous appearance of the mute nor his blinding smoke was sufficient to faze the Vienna batters, who cracked him for three clean singles in the last half of the opening inning, and then failed to score because of foolish base running.

"He seems to be rather hittable to-day," observed Locke. "What's the matter, Wiley? This Vienna bunch doesn't look particularly good to me; just a lot of amateurs who never saw real players, I should say."

"That's it; that's what ails them, for one thing," replied the manager of the Wind Jammers. "They have acc.u.mulated together no special knowledge of Simon poor baseball talent, and so they don't know enough to be scared. Even the great Mathewson has confessed that the worst b.u.mping he ever collided with was handed out by a bunch of bushers who stood up to the dish, shut their blinkers when he pitched, and swung blind at the pill. These lobsters don't realize that Jonesy's fast one would pa.s.s right through a batter without pausing perceptibly if it should hit him, and so they toddle forth without qualms, whatever they are, and take a slam at the globule. Next round I'll have to get out there on the turf and warn them; I'll put the fear of death into their hearts. Get them to quaking and they won't touch the horsehide."

But such a program didn't suit Locke. "If all Jones has is his speed and the fear it inspires, he won't travel far in fast company. You ought to know that, Wiley. Big League batters will knock the cover off the fast one unless a pitcher puts something else on it. Sit still once, to please me, and let's see what Jones can do without the a.s.sistance of your chatter."

"It's hardly a square deal," objected the Marine Marvel. "The jinx has been keeping company with us ever since we struck Fernandon. From that occasion up to the present date, Anno Domino, we haven't won a single consecutive game. Such bad luck has hurt my feelings; it has grieved me to the innermost abscess of my soul."

"Do you mean to say that these country teams have been tr.i.m.m.i.n.g you, with Jones in the box?"

"Alas and alack! I can't deny it unless I resort to fabrication, which I never do. The Euray Browns tapped Jonesy for seventeen heart-breaking bingles, and the Pikeville Greyhounds lacerated his delivery even more painfully. My own brilliant work in the box has been sadly insufficient to stem, the tide of disaster."

Locke frowned. What success, or lack of it, Wiley had had as a pitcher was a matter of no moment; but the statement that amateur teams of no particular standing had found Mysterious Jones an easy mark was disturbing. Was it possible that he had been led, with undue haste, to fritter away good money for a pitcher who would prove worthless in the Big League? True, the mute had seemed to show something in the Fernandon game, but in similar contests Lefty had seen many a pinheaded, worthless country pitcher give a fine imitation of Walter Johnson in top-notch form. The test of the bush was, in reality, no test at all.