Barney O’Reilley, the shortstop, laughed. “Sure,” said he, “it’s a bit of a jump old Jonesy hands any one he looks at fair and hard.”
Lefty Locke felt a throb of deep interest and curiosity. There was something about the deaf-mute pitcher of the Wind Jammers that aroused and fascinated him instantly. His first thought was that the man might be mentally unbalanced to a slight degree; but, though he knew not why, something caused him to reject this conviction almost before it was formed. Apparently Jones was well named “Mysterious.”
“There’s the bird, Lefty,” said Cap’n Wiley proudly. “There’s the boy who’d make ’em sit up and take notice if ever he got a show in the Big League. Yours truly, the Marine Marvel, knew what he was doing when he plucked that plum in the far-away land of lingering snows.”
A queer sound behind him, like a hissing, shuddering gasp, caused Locke to look around quickly. The sound had come from Weegman, who, face blanched, mouth agape, eyes panic-stricken, was staring at the approaching pitcher. Amazement, doubt, disbelief, fear–he betrayed all these emotions. Even while he leaned forward to get a better view over the shoulder of a man before him, he shrank back, crouching like one ready to take to his heels.
Like a person pleased by the sound of his own voice, Cap’n Wiley rattled on in laudation of his mute pitcher. No one save Locke seemed to notice Weegman; and so wholly fascinated by the sight of Jones was the latter that he was quite oblivious to the fact that he had attracted any attention.
“Smoke!” Wiley was saying. “Why, mate, when he uses all his speed, a ball doesn’t last a minute; the calorie friction it creates passing through the air burns the cover off.”
“Ya,” supplemented Shaeffer, the catcher, “und sometimes it sets my mitt afire.”
“Some speed!” agreed Lefty, as Jones, his head bent, reached the foot of the steps. “He looks tired.”
“He’s always that way after he tramps around a strange town,” said the owner of the Wind Jammers. “Afterward he usually goes to bed and rests, and he comes out to the games as full of fire and kinks as a boy who has stuffed himself with green apples. I’ll introduce you, Locke.”
The southpaw looked round again. Weegman was gone; probably he had vanished into the convenient door of the hotel. Cap’n Wiley drew Lefty forward to meet the voiceless pitcher, and, perceiving a stranger, Mysterious Jones halted at the top of the steps and stabbed him with a stare full in the face. Lefty had never looked into such searching, penetrating eyes.