Mysterious Jones came back with two strikeouts; in fact, he struck Sommers, the third man, out also; but the whistling, shooting sphere went through the catcher, and Sommers raced to first on the error. This brought Locke up, and he was eager to hit against Jones. He missed the first one cleanly, but fouled the next two, which was better than any one else had done. Then the silent man put something more on the ball, and Lefty failed to touch it.
“Nice little pitcher, don’t you think?” inquired Cap’n Wiley blandly.
“He behaves well, very well,” admitted the southpaw.
The Grays implored Locke to keep the enemy in hand; the crowd entreated him. This was the game they desired to win. To them it was a struggle of vital importance, and the winning or losing of it was the only question of moment. They did not dream of something a thousand times more momentous involving Lefty Locke.
Loyal to the team and its supporters, the southpaw could not take needless chances of losing, no matter how much he longed to be put upon his mettle and forced to the last notch. Therefore he continued to work his head while on the slab. Schaeffer fouled out, Jones fanned indifferently, and Nuccio popped to shortstop.
“Lucky boy!” called Wiley. “But things won’t always break so well for you. You’ll have to go your limit before the game is over.”
“I hope so,” said Lefty.
Hallett caught one of Jones’ whistlers on the end of his bat and drove it straight into the hands of the first baseman.
“Hooray!” laughed Watson. “At least that shows that he can be hit.”
“A blind man might hit one in a million if he kept his bat swinging,” scoffed Wiley. “Let’s see you do as much.”