CHAPTER VIII
AT NECESSITY’S DEMAND
Even after the ball was thrown back from third, and Lefty had turned away, that grinning, mocking face continued to leer at him. Wherever he looked it hovered before his mental vision like a taunting omen of disaster. He was “all in,” and Weegman knew it. The man had told him, with sneering bluntness, that his “old soup bone was on the blink.” Yet, entertaining this settled conviction regarding Locke’s worthlessness as a pitcher, Weegman had made a long and wearisome journey in order that he might be absolutely sure, by putting the deal through in person, of signing the southpaw for the Blue Stockings at an increased salary. The very fact that he had been offered the position of manager, under conditions that would make him a mere puppet without any real managerial authority, gave the proposition a blacker and more sinister look.
Sommers was signaling. Lefty shook his head to rid himself of that hateful chimera. Misunderstanding, the catcher quickly changed the sign. The pitcher delivered the ball called for first, and it went through Sommers like a fine shot through an open sieve.
Nuccio scored from third with ease, Bemis and O’Reilley advancing at the same time. The Wind Jammers roared from the bench. Cap’n Wiley threw up his hands.
“Furl every stitch!” cried the manager of the visitors. “Batten the hatches! The storm is upon us! It’s going to be a rip-sizzler. I’m afraid the wreck will be a total loss.”
Covering the plate, Lefty took the ball from Sommers.
“How did you happen to cross me?” asked the catcher.
“It was my fault,” was the prompt acknowledgment; “but it won’t happen again.”
“I hope not,” said Sommers. He wanted to suggest that Locke should retire at once and let Matthews take up the pitching, but he refrained.
The southpaw was doing some serious thinking as he walked back to the mound. However well his newly acquired delivery had seemed to serve him on other occasions, he was convinced that it would not do now; either he must pitch in his own natural way and do his best, or he must retire and let Dade Matthews try to check the overconfident aggressors. If he retired, he would prolong the uncertainty in his own mind; he would leave himself in doubt as to whether or not there was any prospect of his return to the Big League as a twirler worthy of his hire. More than doubt, he realized, he would be crushed by a conviction that he was really down and out.