Читать книгу Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager - Standish Burt L. - Страница 9

To a degree, Locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been a sheer waste of time. Working against batters who were dangerous, his artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would hold them in check. He had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted to his natural form.

But what would that do to his shoulder? Could he pitch like that and go the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? Should he attempt it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last heart-breaking game in the Big League.

Involuntarily, as he left the mound, he looked around for Weegman, who had disappeared. It gave Lefty some satisfaction to feel that, for the time being, at least, he had wiped the mocking grin from the schemer’s face.

Cap’n Wiley jogged down from third, an expression of injured reproof puckering his countenance. “I am pained to the apple core,” he said. “My simple, trusting nature has received a severe shock. Just when I thought we had you meandering away from here, Lefty, you turned right round and came back. If you handed us that one lone tally to chirk us along, let me reassure you that you made the mistake of your young life; I am going to ascend the hillock and do some volleying, which makes it extensively probable that the run we have garnered will be sufficient to settle the game.”

“Don’t be so unfeeling!” responded Locke. “Give us Mysterious Jones.”

“Oh, perchance you may be able to get on the sacks with me pushing ’em over; but if Jones unlimbered his artillery on you, he’d mow you down as fast as you toddled up to the pentagon. You see, I wish the assemblage to witness some slight semblance of a game.”

In action upon the slab, Wiley aroused still further merriment. His wind-up before delivering the ball was most bewildering. His writhing, squirming twists would have made a circus contortionist gasp. First he seemed to tie himself into knots, pressing the ball into the pit of his stomach like a person in excruciating anguish. On the swing back, he turned completely away from the batter, facing second base for a moment, at the same time poising himself on his right foot and pointing his left foot toward the zenith. Then he came forward and around, as if he would put the sphere over with the speed of a cannon ball–and handed up a little, slow bender.

But he need not have troubled himself to put a curve on that first one, for Fred Hallett, leading off for the Grays, stood quite still and stared like a person hypnotized. The ball floated over, and the umpire called a strike, which led Hallett to shake himself and join in the laughter of the crowd.

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” spluttered Wiley. “Was my speed too much for you? Couldn’t you see it when it came across? Shall I pitch you a slow one?”

Hallett shook his head, unable to reply.

“Oh, vurry, vurry well,” said the Marine Marvel. “As you choose. I don’t want to be too hard on you.” Then, after going through with a startling variation of the former convulsions, he did pitch a ball that was so speedy that the batsman swung too slowly. And, a few minutes later, completing the performance to his own satisfaction, he struck Hallett out with a neat little drop. “I preen myself,” said he, “that I’m still there with the huckleberries. As a pitcher of class, I’ve got Matty and a few others backed up against the ropes. Bring on your next victim.”

Charlie Watson found the burlesque so amusing that he laughed all the way from the bench to the plate. The eccentric pitcher looked at him sympathetically.

“When you get through shedding tears,” he said, “I’ll pitch to you. I hate to see a strong man weep.”

Then, without the slightest warning, using no wind-up whatever, he snapped one straight over, catching Watson unprepared. That sobered Watson down considerably.

“I’m glad to see you feeling better,” declared the manager of the Wind Jammers. “Now that you’re quite prepared, I’ll give you something easy.”

The slow one that he tossed up seemed to hang in the air with the stitches showing. Watson hit it and popped a little fly into Wiley’s hands, the latter not being compelled to move out of his tracks. He removed his cap and bowed his thanks.

Doc Tremain walked out seriously enough, apparently not at all amused by the horseplay that was taking place. With his hands on his hips, Wiley stared hard at Tremain.

“Here’s a jolly soul!” cried the pitcher. “He’s simply laughing himself sick. I love to see a man enjoy himself so diabolically.”

“Oh, play ball!” the doctor retorted tartly. “This crowd isn’t here to see monkeyshines.”

“Then they won’t look at you, my happy friend. And that’s a dart of subtle repartee.”

Wiley’s remarkable wind-up and delivery did not seem to bother Tremain, who viciously smashed the first ball pitched to him. It was a savage line drive slightly to the left of the slabman, but the latter shot out his gloved hand with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed the whistling sphere. Having made the catch, the Marine Marvel tossed the ball carelessly to the ground and sauntered toward the bench with an air of bored lassitude. There was a ripple of applause.

“You got off easy that time, cap’n,” said Locke, coming out. “When are you going to let us have a crack at Jones?”

“A crack at him!” retorted Wiley. “Don’t make me titter, Lefty! Your assemblage of would-bes never could get anything remotely related to a crack off Jones. However, when ongwee begins to creep over me I’ll let him go in and polish you off.”

“Colonel” Rickey, leading off for the Wind Jammers in the second, hoisted an infield fly, and expressed his annoyance in a choice Southern drawl as he went back to the bench.

Peter Plum, the fat right fielder, followed, poling out an infield drive which, to the amazement of the crowd, he nearly turned into a safety by the most surprising dash to first. Impossible though it seemed, the chunky, short-legged fellow could run like a deer, and when he was cut down by little more than a yard at the hassock he vehemently protested that it was robbery.

Locke was taking it easy now; he almost seemed to invite a situation that would again put his arm to the test. There was a queer feeling in his shoulder, a feeling he did not like, and he wondered if he could “tighten” in repeated pinches, as he had so frequently done when facing the best batters in the business. But, though he grooved one to Schaeffer, the catcher boosted an easy fly to Watson in left field.