Locke looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes before the game starts. How far is your park?”
“’Bout a mile, sah, mo’ uh less.”
“Two dollars, if you get me there in a hurry.”
“Two dollahs, sah? Yes, sah! Step right in, sah, an’ watch dis heah streak o’ locomotion transpose yo’ over de earth surface. Set tight an’ hol’ fast.”
Tossing his overcoat and bag into the rear of the carriage, Lefty sprang in. The old negro gave a shrill yell, and cracked his whip with a pistol-like report. The yell and the crack electrified the rawboned old nag into making a wild leap as if trying to jump out of the thills. It was a marvel that the spliced and string-tied harness held. The southpaw was flung down upon the rear seat, and it was a wonder that he did not go flying over the low back of it and out of the carriage. He grabbed hold with both hands, and held fast. Round the corner of the station spun the carriage on two wabbly wheels, and away it careened at the heels of the galloping horse, the colored driver continuing to yell and crack his whip. Two dollars!
The ride from the station to the baseball park was brief but exciting. The distance could not have been more than half a mile, and, considering the conveyance, it was made in record time.
“Whoa, yo’ Nancy Hanks!” shouted the driver, surging back on the reins and stopping the animal so abruptly that Lefty was nearly pitched into the forward seat. “Did I heah yo’ say you wanted to git heah in a hurry, sah?”
Locke jumped out. “That’s the shortest mile I ever traveled,” he said, handing over the price promised. “But then, when it comes to driving, Barney Oldfield has nothing on you.”
Carrying his overcoat and bag, he hurried to the gate and paid the price of admission. A goodly crowd had gathered, and the local team was practicing on the field. Over at one side some of the visitors were getting in a little light batting practice. Mysterious Jones was warming up with Schaeffer. A short distance behind Jones stood Cap’n Wiley, his legs planted wide, his arms folded, his ear cocked, listening to Mit Skullen, who was talking earnestly. Lefty strode hastily toward the pair.
“Sell him!” said the Marine Marvel, in reply to the scout, as the southpaw approached behind them. “Of course I will. But you made one miscue, mate; you should have come straight to me in the first place, instead of superflouing away your time seeking to pilfer him off me by stealth. What price do you respectfully tender?”