Lefty Locke, pitcher-manager

by Burt L. Standish

Skullen, in the act of removing his coat, was caught unprepared. Before he could fling the garment aside Locke was upon him, aiming a well-meant blow for the point of Mit’s jaw.

Skullen realized that it was no trifling thing to stop such a blow as that, and he jerked his head aside, as he dropped his coat. The blow caught him glancingly and sent him staggering, upsetting the chair from which he had recently risen. Locke grabbed the edge of the table and pitched it against the ruffian’s two companions, who had hastily started to get up. They fell over, with the table on top of them.

Lefty followed up his advantage, and kept right on after Skullen. Uttering a snarl of astonished rage, the latter sought to grapple, but the southpaw knew that he could not afford to waste time in that sort of a struggle. Whatever he did must be done swiftly, effectively, and thoroughly. Delay meant only disaster to him. Avoiding the clutching hands of his antagonist, he struck Mit on the neck, below the ear, staggering him again.

Skullen had not looked for such a whirlwind assault. He had fancied the trapped man would wait until set upon, and he had believed he would have little trouble in beating Lefty to the full satisfaction of his revengeful heart. He was strong and ponderous, and he could still strike a terrible blow, but years had slowed him down, his lack of exercise had softened his muscles, his eye had lost its quickness, while indulgence in drink and dissipation had taken the snap and ginger out of him. He had not realized before how much he had deteriorated, but now, witnessing the lightning-like movements of Lefty Locke, he began to understand, and sudden apprehension overcame him.

“Bill! Snuff!” he roared. “Get into it! Get at him, you snails! Soak him!”

His appeal to his companions was an unintentional admission that he suddenly realized he was no match for the man he had attempted to beat. The flickering gaslight had given him a glimpse of a terrible blazing look in Locke’s eyes. Once, in the ring, he had seen a look like that in the eyes of an opponent who had apparently gone crazy. And he had been knocked out by him!

Scrambling up from beneath the capsized table, Bill and Snuff responded. Lefty knew that in a moment they would take a hand in the fight, and then the odds would be three against one, and none of the three would hesitate at any brutal methods to smash the one. Once he was beaten down, they would kick and stamp him into insensibility; and later, perhaps, he would be found outside somewhere in the back alley, with broken bones, possibly maimed and disfigured for life.

The knowledge of what would happen to him, if defeated, made him doubly strong and fierce. He endeavored to dispose of Skullen first, believing that by doing so he would have half the battle won.

Skullen’s howls to his companions came to an abrupt termination. Like an irresistible engine of destruction, Locke had smashed through the defense of the ruffian, and, reaching him with a terrible blow, sent him spinning and crashing into a corner of the room. At the same instant, Bill, joining in, was met by a back kick in the pit of his stomach, and, with a grunt, he doubled up, clutching at his middle with both hands.

This gave the southpaw a chance to turn on Snuff, who had not, so far, shown any great desire to help his pals. The creature had seemed physically insignificant, sitting at the table, but now, in action, he moved with the quickness of a wild cat, in great contrast to the ponderousness of Skullen. And he had a weapon in his hand–a blackjack!