“Is it possible,” he muttered, shaking his head, “that this is the great Lefty Locke? If so, it must be true that his star is on the decline. Alas and alack, life is filled with such bitter disappointments.”
Whether the regret of Wiley was real or pretended, it was shared by a large part of the spectators, who were friendly to the local team; for Locke had become very well liked in Fernandon, both by the citizens of the place and the Northern visitors.
It must not be imagined that, with the corners crowded and no one down, Locke was fully at his ease. He had decided to make this game the test of his ability to “come back,” and already it looked as if the first inning would give him his answer. If he could not successfully hold in check this heterogeneous collection of bush talent, it was easy to understand what would happen to him the next time he essayed to twirl for the Blue Stockings. A sickening sense of foreboding crept over him, but his lips wore a smile, and he showed no sign of being perturbed.
Schepps was at the plate, having discarded one of the bats he had been swinging. He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Always t’ought I could bump a real league pitcher,” he said. “Put one acrost, pal, an’ I’ll tear der cover off.”
Locke hesitated. He had been using the new delivery he had acquired to spare his shoulder. In previous games it had proved effective enough to enable him to continue four or five innings, but now–
Suddenly he whipped the ball to third, sending Nuccio diving headlong back to the sack. The crafty little Italian had been creeping off, ready to make a flying dash for the plate. He was safe by a hair.
“Not on your movie film!” cried Cap’n Wiley. “It can’t be done!”
Lefty did not hear him. He was gazing past the Marine Marvel at the face of a man who, taking care to keep himself unobtrusively in the background, was peering at him over the shoulders of a little group of spectators–a grinning, mocking derisive face.
It was Weegman. And Weegman knew!