Locke was passing in front of the section occupied by the newspaper men when Stillman called to him. “I don’t see your wife here, nor Miss Collier,” said the reporter. “I looked for both to be on hand for the opening game on the home grounds.”
“Unfortunately neither was able to get here, although they planned to do so,” explained Lefty. “You know they have been spending the past eight weeks in Southern California with Virginia’s aunt, who invited them to accompany her and would not take no for an answer. They’ll be on hand to-morrow, however.”
Stillman leaned toward the wire netting and lowered his voice. “Has Collier ever caught on to the fact that the sister with whom he had quarreled furnished the capital to save him from going to smash?” he questioned.
“Not yet. It’s still a mystery to him how I was able to come forward at the psychological moment with that loan.”
The newspaper man laughed softly. “He came near passing away from heart failure that day. He was shocked almost as much as Garrity, but in a different way.” His manner changed to one of concern. “You’re going to use Jones to-day, aren’t you? Think you have any chance to win?”
“Unless I’ve made a mistake in estimating that man,” replied Locke, “it won’t be his fault if we lose. But it’ll be a test for the whole team as well as Jones.”
It was truly a test. A pitcher who was merely a “speed merchant” could not have lasted three innings against the Wolves, who “ate speed.” It was not long, however, before the anxious crowd, and the visiting team as well, began to realize that the mute twirler had something more than speed. Now and then he mixed in a sharp-breaking curve, and his hopper was something to wonder at, something that made the batters mutter and growl as they slashed at it fruitlessly. But, best of all, besides coolness and judgment, he had that prime essential of all pitchers, control. With never-failing and almost monotonous regularity, he seemed to put the sphere precisely where he tried to put it.
In Brick King, Jones had a valuable aid. King knew his old associates; if any one of them had a batting weakness, he was aware of it. And not once during the game did Jones question a signal given him by King. What Brick called for he pitched, and put it just where it should be put. With such rifle accuracy, the work of the man behind the bat seemed easy, save for the fact that occasionally Jones’ smokers appeared almost to lift the backstop off his feet. But King held them as if his big mitt had been smeared with paste.
Smoke Jordan was also in fine fettle. It was a pitcher’s battle, with the crowd watching and gasping and waiting for “the break.” It must not be imagined that the Wolves did not hit the ball at all, but for a long time they could not seem to hit it safely, and for four innings they could not get a runner on. In the first of the fifth, however, a cracking single and two errors permitted them to score an unearned run.
“If I know what I’m talking about,” said Ben Frazer, “we had no license to get that tally. Now, Smoke, you’ve got to hold ’em. If that dummy don’t crack, I’ll acknowledge that he’s a real pitcher.”