“I’ve pampered my arm long enough,” he decided. “I’m going to find out if there’s anything left in it.”
Perhaps the decision was unwise. The result of the game with the Wind Jammers was of no importance, but Locke felt that, for his own peace of mind, he must know what stuff was left in him. And there was no one present with authority, no coach, no counselor, to restrain him. There was a strange, new gleam in his eyes when he once more toed the slab. His faint smile had not vanished, but it had taken lines of grimness.
Schepps tapped the plate with his bat. “Come on, pal,” he begged; “don’t blow up. Gimme one of der real kind, an’ lemme have a swat at it.”
The crowd was silent; even the chattering darkies had ceased their noise. Only the Wind Jammers jubilated on the bench and the coaching lines.
Poising himself, Locke caught Sommer’s signal, and nodded. Then he swung his arm with the old free, supple, whiplash motion, and the ball that left his fingers cut the air like a streak of white, taking a really remarkable hop. Schepps’ “swat” was wasted.
“Now, dat’s like it!” cried the sandlotter. “Where’ve you been keepin’ dat kind, old boy? Gimme a duplicate.”
Lefty watched Bemis, the long-legged ground coverer, working away toward the plate, and drove him back. But he seemed to have forgotten O’Reilley, and the Irishman was taking a lead on which he should have little trouble in scoring if Schepps drove out a safety. Farther and farther he crept up toward third.
Sommers tugged at his mask with an odd little motion. Like a flash the southpaw whirled about and shot the ball to second, knowing some one would be there to take the throw. Mel Gates was the man who covered the bag, and O’Reilley found himself caught between second and third. Gates went after him, and the Irishman ran toward third. But Locke had cut in on the line, and he took a throw from Gates that caused O’Reilley to turn back abruptly. Behind Gates, Norris was covering the cushion. Tremain came down a little from third to back Lefty up.
Colby had raced from first base to the plate in order to support Sommers, for Bemis was swiftly creeping down to make a dash. On the coaching line, Cap’n Wiley did a wild dance. The spectators were thrilled by the sudden excitement of the moment.
Lefty ran O’Reilley back toward second, and he knew Bemis was letting himself out in an attempt to score. Swinging instantly, Locke made a rifle-accurate throw to Sommers, who jammed the ball on to the long-geared runner as he was sliding for the plate. The affair had been so skillfully managed that not only was O’Reilley prevented from advancing, but also the attempt to sneak a tally while the Irishman was being run down had resulted disastrously for the Wind Jammers.